


Half-brother in blood, full lover in heart

by firstamazon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cute Kids, Drama & Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, GoodDad!Feanor, GoodDad!Fingolfin, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Politics, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:26:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 184,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstamazon/pseuds/firstamazon
Summary: During the Years of the Trees, things were not what they looked like. Valinor was supposed to be a safe place - but is it? When Fëanor and Fingolfin find in each other everything they were looking for, they will stirr a most dangerous hornets' nest. A romance, with hints of mystery and suspense.
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Eärwen/Finarfin | Arafinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Comments: 438
Kudos: 126





	1. The young prince

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [“I Will Lead And Thou Shalt Follow ”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12637) by [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine). 
  * Inspired by [The Revolutionary and the Usurper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3075395) by [Encairion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Encairion/pseuds/Encairion). 



> I must thank the amazing Encairion for helping me with the editing - without whom the text would be much less intelligible! - and for her and Spiced_Wine's support and inspiration <3 they are so ridiculously talented, and their stories literally changed Tolkien's world for me. They're the best, go read them!

“Good morning, little prince. It’s time you wake up”, said Laríel entering the chambers and opening the curtains.

That is what she did every single day, and it was one of the first memories Fëanáro ever had. She was plump and always had a merry smile with dimples on her face. She sang softly while she bathed the young prince, combed and tried to fix the mane of his hair, and dressed him to have breakfast with his father. Finwë always waited for his firstborn on the door of the living room with a smile on his face. He would reach out a hand for Fëanáro to take it eagerly, eating the face of his dear father with his shiny eyes.

Prince Fëanáro was a bright, lively boy, always making questions, always curious, and eager to learn everything. He wasn’t an excellent listener, though. Anytime he would ask a question, he couldn’t wait for the answer as another one would already come out. His father would laugh and ask him to be patient, something the boy couldn’t even begin to understand.

He was still very young and, later, would barely remember what was it like to have a mother. He remembered glimpses of her: her beautiful but sad smile that she bestowed him, the silver of her eyes that reflected the color of her soft hair. He remembered holding his father’s hand to be taken to his mother’s presence. They would spend hours there, although she spoke little and was always in bed, holding his father’s hand while he read for her.

Instigated by Finwë not to talk much when close to Míriel – although his father could never explain why – Fëanáro learned quickly it was better to _show_. He drew a hundred things for her, wanting to show his mother how was the world outside that room in his childish conviction that, if she never left the bed, she certainly didn’t know the color of this flower, how that tree looked like, or the many faces of a butterfly’s wing. So he sat on a little desk made for his size drawing, drawing, while his father’s voice rung above him and dominated the dim room his mother always lay.

Every time he finished a drawing, he would approach his parents and showed both of them his new work, expecting the praises that naturally came because even in his infancy, he already showed extreme talent. His parents would swell with pride and smile at him, his mother touching his cheeks softly as if this very movement was too much for her.

It was frequent for him to interrupt his father to make comments about whatever was he reading. These interruptions were, first, seen with amusement by his parents, smiling at his cleverness. But it was very common that his aptitudes also made his father widen his eyes in amazement. Finwë had been reading to Míriel the new book published by Master Rúmil about the language of the Teleri. He tried to emulate one sentence but was interrupted by his son’s giggles.

“No, father, it’s not said like that!” and laughed with his child's voice.

Finwë raised his brows and asked, “How is it then, Curufinwë?”

And Fëanáro said the sentence in a perfect accent that made his mother laugh softly, Finwë’s brows even higher in shock.

Fëanáro heard him say to Míriel: “Where is this boy learning these things? I surely didn’t teach him any of this!”

“I think… it’s time he had proper teaching, my love”, his mother’s voice came in a faint whisper. His father nodded, and Fëanáro didn’t understand what that meant. Was it a good thing for him to say those things?

He looked for his father to be assured, and Finwë smiled openly at him, saying: “You are the most clever of creatures, aren’t you, my boy?” Of course, Fëanáro didn’t do it on purpose only to impress his parents, but, once he knew he did, he could never stop. It was a balm in his short life to see how he made them proud.

Because of the sad environment surrounding his mother, despite his happiness inside her chamber, Fëanáro withdrew from all social interaction from the very start. He soon became a shy little boy who didn’t have any contact with other children and clung to his father’s legs anytime a stranger would come close. The only time he could let go of himself and be free was beside his mother’s bed, sad as it was. But the smiles she gave him made him happy, and that was enough to create the base of his earlier memories.

One day, Laríel entered his chambers with a different look on her face. She wasn’t smiling, and her eyes lingered on him when he woke up, a frown in her forehead. _Still so very little…_ she thought. Laríel sat at his feet on the bed and touched his leg, trying to smile, but making a face he couldn’t comprehend. He saw how sad she looked and didn’t like it. Something felt constricted inside him, and he instinctively flew his little arms around his maid’s neck, not daring to ask what was wrong. He felt her hand stroking his back and saying in a muffled voice: “Come now, Prince. Your father awaits.”

He let himself be bathed and dressed, but this time Laríel didn’t sing. He could hear her crying on his back, and he started singing for her a tune his mother had taught him with a high pitched little voice and felt her hand quiver in his scalp. She finished primping him with moisty eyes, not looking straight at him.

“Are you mad with me, Laríel? Is it because I stole honey cake from the kitchens yesterday?” he asked finally, unable to restrain himself. The maid looked startled and touched his cheeks affectionately as his mother did.

“Of course not, dear," she patted his head. "There, you look very handsome,” she said, finishing to tie his red tunic. He looked indeed like the little Prince he was in those fancy clothes, the red tunic embroidered with gold straws and the four-point star that symbolized his father's house in his chest. She took his hand and walked out with him. He glanced at her from time to time and saw she was continually wiping tears off her eyes. He squeezed her hand and felt like he wanted to cry, too.

It was a shock to see the same look on his father’s face. He was grave, his eyes red and wet, and his face as pale as he had never seen. He managed a wry smile when he took his son’s hand.

“I am so sorry, Sire,” the maid said, biting a sob back.

“It’s all right, Laríel. I thank you”, he said, touching the elbow of the maid, who seemed to start crying even more. Finwë put him in the table sat across to him, poured him milk and a slice of apple cake, and watched him. Fëanáro looked back with attentive eyes, trying to understand what was happening with the people he loved. He was used to seeing this sad look on his mother’s face, but not on his father’s. Not on strong Finwë.

He reached out his little hand and touched his father’s face, who shuddered under his touch and swallowed something that looked hard and heavy on his throat.

“Father, are you mad at me?”. He just had to be sure.

“Oh, my sweet boy…” he snatched his son into his arms and hold him, squeezed him against his chest. The child didn’t understand now any more than before, but he hugged his father, slim arms over his neck. He sensed his father’s body sobbing beneath him, shaking and trembling. He felt utter terror. Why was his father suffering so much?

“Father…”

“Fëanáro, listen to me,” his father said, cleaning his face with a napkin and sitting his son on his legs. _Still so very small…_ “There is something we must talk about. It is very serious, and I want you to pay close attention and not interrupt me this time. Do you think you can do it?” The boy nodded, and Finwë sighed, trying to hold back more tears, swallowing his anguish.

“Your mother…” he started and swallowed again. “She went to Lórien’s garden to rest.” His round silver eyes widened with the questions he wanted to ask, but his father continued, leaving him no time to think. “She… she will be there for a very long time until she gets better.” With this last sentence, his father’s face hardened, and his eyes seemed to spark with a fit of anger he never saw before that made him feel afraid.

Fëanáro didn’t understand what that meant. She would come back, right? He _was_ very young. The only thing he remembered from that day on is that his mother did not come back. He would ask his father every day where was his mother when was she coming back, but he only said she was resting in Lórien’s garden. And that was it. Fëanáro asked if he could visit her, but Finwë told him that she needed her rest this time. He didn’t want to take his son to look upon the limp, lifeless body of his mother. If he could live with the hope she would come back, it was better so.

Thus, Fëanáro never saw her again, never more heard his father speak of her. Not very long after, he stopped asking. Instead, Finwë made sure his son wouldn’t miss her that much. He obliterated Míriel’s presence with himself. He became, in full, both mother and father to the young prince, orbiting Fëanáro’s like the satellite moon of a planet. Finwë motivated Fëanáro in everything he took an interest in and gave him a tutor, so he could slake his infinite curiosity in Rúmil’s wisdom. The boy was reveling in his father’s constant company, that seemed to never leave his side, and on Rúmil’s teachings.

So the young prince reached his childhood having everything he could ask for. He learned languages, math, natural and biological sciences, music and arts with such interest and ability that, in no time, it was already spoken that Fëanáro was the brightest young man of all Aman. The boy took that job seriously. To keep his father smiling, he had to keep presenting him with all his brilliancy – and, lucky for him, he never failed to do.


	2. Winds of change

As Fëanáro grew up, he remembered his mother as this kind, aloof person, with her sad smile and rare soft laughter. Whenever he felt angry, disappointed, or lonely, there was this place inside his mind he could always find her, laying on the bed, her pale hair spread like the pool under Telperion, offering him all the smiles she could muster.

As an introspective, brilliant boy, Fëanáro quickly learned that those precious times with himself were his own: nobody could erase those memories from him or take them away, not the silence of his father on the matter, not the conciliatory speeches of the Valar. He didn’t mind that they were both happy and sorrowful memories as if remembering them brought equal measures of bittersweet infancy, with his distant mother but his overly present father, the assuring smile, the firm grip on his shoulders. It was enough for him.

But despite, or because of, having an extraordinary precocious mind, Fëanáro didn’t have any friends. Not that he minded! He focused solely on his studies, achieving more than any of the children his age and more than all of the older ones, too. He called Finwë and Rúmil his best friends, and neither said anything against his childish choices. He shared everything with them, although he preferred to share theories with his master and conclusions with his father.

His short life took yet another turn, however, when one day, he entered his father’s study without knocking, like many other days before. He caught a glimpse of his father whispering in the ear of a tall, blonde woman he had never seen before. They were holding hands. She moved her eyes towards the door and let out a surprised gasp at his intrusion; his father quickly backed away from her with “GUILT” written in his forehead. Finwë promptly stepped forward to greet his son in a manner that showed he was clearly trying to hide something but failed utterly. Fëanáro was far from being stupid, he _knew_ his father was hiding something, he just didn’t know what.

“My son! I am glad you are here”, he said, reaching out his hand so Fëanáro would take it – which he didn’t, with a strange feeling in his gut. “I want to introduce you to my… friend, Indis, of the Vanyar”. He said her name with a silly smile on his face, which Fëanáro simply didn’t recognize. He looked at the white figure that also smiled at him. Why was his chest contracting with distrust? Was it because her lips curved in a way that seemed as fake and cold as the marble statues of the garden?

“What were you doing when I arrived?” he asked, biting his words, unblinkingly, to his father. Finwë’s reaction didn’t quench his suspicions. Indis flew her hand to her mouth and giggled like a little girl, and his father’s cheeks went pink, like Fëanáro’s when he was caught misbehaving.

“Curufinwë! This is very impolite!”

“Why? Were you doing something wrong?”. His father laughed nervously and said to his _friend,_ “Please, forgive him," to what she waved a slim white hand in the air in dismissal.

Forgive him? What for? His father was hiding something with this woman, and Fëanáro needed to be _forgiven_ for finding it out? He should be praised for his wits, as he always was. So it came to him: they were sharing a secret, like best friends, and Fëanáro was not a part of it. His heart sunk to the bottom of his stomach.

“Why don’t you join us, my son? It would please my heart if you and Indis became friends, just like we are.”

“Only if you share your secret with me,” he said, chin high in a haughty manner that Finwë had never seen before. “That’s what friends do, right?”

“Oh…” Finwë blinked and flushed again.

“We were just talking, darling.” And by the look in her blue eyes, Fëanáro knew immediately she was lying.

“Yes, I was telling Indis what a brilliant student you are,” he tried amending the situation with another smile. Fëanáro recognized, now, the proud father, but it was so out of context that Fëanáro shook his head in disbelief and narrowed his silver eyes shining with anger.

He spun away and stormed out of the room, the assignment he intended to have shown his father pressed tight in his fingers, the parchment screwed-up within his grip. He slammed the door of his chamber, chest heaving, a knot in his throat. He wanted to break something. He tore the parchment into a million pieces and threw into the fireplace feeling the tears fall against his will while his work burned.

His mind was racing with his thoughts, the same way it happened when he was learning something, theorizing, and having ideas. The thoughts came like flashes of lightning, red anger staining his cheeks. And then the conclusion came to him clear as crystal: if his father started sharing secrets with someone else that wasn’t him, Fëanáro was going to be left behind. His father was going to substitute him and forget about him. His father found another one who was his best friend and was going to stop caring for him and…

He sat on the floor, trying to put order into his thoughts. The fear of losing his father crept within him, a shiver running through his spine and something cold inside his belly as if he had swallowed a bucket of slimy snails. He pressed his knees against his chest, bouncing back and forth with his eyes closed, trying not to think about it, but he saw it, his father already had a best friend, and he was going to leave him. Hot tears fell down his cheeks, burning some of his anger away but leaving a track of abandonment behind. The handle of his chamber’s door opened behind him, but he didn’t look back. He knew his father had entered when he smelled the scent of pine and lemons. His father’s scent.

Finwë sat down beside Fëanáro and touched his shoulder, that firm, reassuring grip. Finwë gave him a sad smile, that same smile he had when he informed him of his mother’s departure.

“Why did you lie to me? Why can’t you share your secret?” he finally opened his lamplike eyes, asking before his father could say anything, the hard little face in anguish.

He was silent for a very long time, and then, as if he had found the appropriate answer, he said, without smiling, now: “Because it is not the subject for a child.”

It was the perfect answer, Fëanáro praised his father mentally. There was no way he could argue with that! He talked about “adult” subjects in his straightforward manner that raised concern on many, from his tutor to the people who gossiped about it in Tirion. But there were some things, grownup things, he _knew_ nobody talked to him about, even when he asked. Whatever happened between his father and the blond woman was one of those things, he was sure.

“So when I am older, will you share it with me?,” he tried.

“When you are old enough, you will discover them by yourself, as you do with anything else, I have no doubt,” his father said, caressing his hair. Fëanáro lowered his eyes and bit his lower lip, indicating he was not done with the questions. His father lifted his chin with a finger and continued: “I meant it when I said I wished you and Indis could become friends.”

“You and master Rúmil are my friends, father, I don’t want any other! And I don’t want you to have other friends but me!”

“That is a very selfish thought, Curufinwë,” he said gravely, but with warmth in his voice.

“But you _are_ mine, father!”

“I am yours, and you are mine, my boy,” he said after a pause, sighing and touching Fëanáro’s cheeks. That single sentence melted the fear in Fëanaro’s heart, and he leaned to his father’s hand, letting him cup his face and wipe his tears off.

“So you will be my friend forever?” the innocent question made Finwë chuckle.

“Yes, we will always be best friends.” And, under the spectating look, he added, “and when you’re older, we will have much more to share.”

“So…” Fëanáro continued, delighted to hear all those reassurances, “you will love me forever and will never forget about me?” he widened his shiny starlight eyes and asked what was indeed troubling him.

Finwë’s face flinched with pain to discover the root of it. It was not, as he had imagined, the thought of having another mother. “My son, do not ever doubt it!” he flew his arm around Fëanáro’s slim shoulders, bringing him to his chest in a tight embrace. “Look at me, Curufinwë,” he said, cupping his son’s face in his hands. “I could never forget about you! You are my blood, and I love you more than anything in the world!”

“Do you promise, father?”

“I promise,” he said, smiling. “But, in turn, I want you to promise something, too.”

Fëanáro saw it coming. He knew his father would ask him to befriend Indis. He didn’t want to, he didn’t trust her blue eyes and her girl-like giggle.

“Next time you meet someone, you will be polite and courteous as the son of the High King you are. Do you promise me that?”

“Yes, father, I will try,” he replied, looking down, not knowing precisely what Finwë wanted of him. He hasn’t been uncourteous! He just didn't find the necessity to hide his opinions, like they were hiding with their stupid secret! He didn’t like secrets. But he promised his father, for what else could he do? If he did what he was asked, maybe his father would not forget about him, after all.

***

No matter how much Fëanáro tried, he couldn’t stand _that_ one. She was false, and when his father was not around, she treated him coldly and without any spark of friendliness. He discovered how sly she could be one evening meal. They gathered in the dining room and were about to start eating when Finwë was called by one of his secretaries. He excused himself and went to his private study to receive the man.

He had dreaded that moment, seeing himself alone with that creature that resembled the big ducks he once saw at the lake that spread between Oromë’s woods and Yavanna’s pastures. He had been there with his father, but the memory of the brainless feathered animals was stuck in his mind whenever he saw her.

Nonetheless, Fëanáro tried to do as his father bid him, casting an inquisitive glance at Indis. He didn’t know how intelligent she was, but if she was his father’s friend, she must be. His father wouldn’t befriend a brainless creature. They were both seating on the table, waiting for Finwë to get back so they could eat, and Fëanáro started talking as he would with his father, telling her the things he had learned that day.

“Master Rúmil told me today the new book he's working on, about the many languages-”

“You will ask permission to speak on the table, child,” she didn’t lift her head from the embroidery she had in her hands. Fëanáro blinked, not quite sure he had heard correctly

“I always talk with father about my-”

“And you will call me ‘my lady’ when you address me.” Still, she didn’t look at him. He felt his arms and legs shaking with anger.

“I don’t call father my lord, and he never said-”

“Your father is not the only one who is going to be ruling this house. I am the Queen to be, after all." Now she glanced at him triumphantly, and he thought he heard in his head someone saying _the days of the little prince are over_.

Fëanáro looked as if he had been slapped. His face was pale and he felt his blood running fast in his veins, thrumming on his temples. Finwë walked back to the room and saw his son’s blank face, eyes wide, and the mouth thinner than a sheet of parchment.

“Fëanáro, what happened…?”

“Oh, my dear, I have just told him the great news!” Indis said smiling as if this was the best decision she had ever made.

“Is it true?” Fëanáro turned to him, eyes burning brighter than the Trees.

¨Fëanáro, I…”

“Is it true?” he screamed and stood up. In this heartbeat of hesitation, he kicked the leg of the center table and dropped the vase to the ground, smashing it into a dozen pieces. He ran out of the room fast, until his father's pleas for him to come back were only echoes in his head. He blinked the tears out so he could see straight and, when he realized, he saw that this was a part of the garden he had never been before. It was almost private, the ground covered with different kinds of flowers.

There was a door at the end of the trail that led into a single room, and when he entered it, he was astounded to find himself in his mother’s old chamber. He didn’t even remember when was the last time he came here, but it has been even before she… left. The smell of dust, stone, and humidity invaded his nose. The bed was the only furniture still there.

He went to the window, surprised he didn’t remember or didn’t recognize, the small garden that used to comfort Míriel from where she laid. The sound of the big oak's bough clipping on the window was the only one in the place. He felt the sob come to his throat and didn’t hold it back. It was no coincidence he came here, he knew it. He had been guided by his mother’s presence in his mind, and it was comforting but also re-opened the still-fresh wound of his fear of abandonment.

It had been years, now, since he last thought of her as a real person, only reaching her through his private haven. And only now he realized how much he missed her. He yearned for her touch, her kindness, her smile. It was almost nothing to scrap over, and yet he had grasped it with all the fierceness of his spirit. He curled up in a ball on her bed and cried until sleep took him.

When he woke up, he was on his own bed, Finwë was sitting at his side, revolving a ring in his fingers. His father looked at him when he stirred and touched his hand affectionately.

“Curufinwë…” he whispered as if he was discovering that name just now. “My beautiful, brilliant boy.” Fëanáro couldn’t answer to that. He was still angry at his father for keeping yet another secret from him, another secret he shared only with _her_. His father sighed and showed him the pretty silver ring, thin and adorned with one single ruby, smoothly polished. He remembered seeing it in his mother's hand.

“I never forgot her”, he smiled wearily. “But I think you are old enough now to know… that it was her choice to leave.”

Fëanáro’s throat convulsed again. He swallowed, feeling his eyes filling with more tears he wasn’t ready to shed.

“But that” his father continued “doesn’t mean she didn’t love you, my son. She loved you very, very much, as do I. But I… I need a chance…” he couldn’t say that he needed to forget the woman that had deliberately _abandoned_ him and their child. Whatever the Valar had said about Fëanáro’s spirit, he couldn’t, _wouldn't_ believe that gentle, bright little soul was the cause had gotten her sick. It had been her choice and hers alone.

“You had another secret with her, you lied to me! You don’t want to be my friend anymore!” Fëanáro screamed at him, tears rolling uncontrollably again.

"I will always be” Finwë felt his throat closing. He grabbed the boy that was growing so fast into his arms. Fëanáro fought back, not wanting to be treated as a child but as a grownup who had serious emotions and who was feeling them so deep inside his heart.

He struggled, cried but, finally, was won by his father’s insistent caress in his back and thick black hair. Finwë lulled him like a baby, kissing his front and saying soft words in his ears. “Hush now, child. It’s all right. It will be all right. There is no need to fight. There is no need to hold the tears back. I am here. I will never cease to love you, Fëanáro.” He lost the power to fight, feeling his limbs tired, the knot in his throat slowly dissolving.

And, at that moment, Fëanáro drifted back to sleep believing him.

***

_These conversations are only going to get harder._

_I don’t know how to shake off h_ _is_ _feeling of abandonment. What is going to happen, then, when a new child comes?_ Finwë asked silently, eyes shimmering with concern.

 _All in its due time_ , Rúmil answered inside the king’s mind.

 _He has already begun to fight back my power over his sleep. Perhaps you could talk to him… tell him… motivate him to make friends._ He waved his hand in the air impatiently.

_You know how he feels about that. He won’t accept it. But I admit that, since the announcement, he has become more aggressive each day. He cannot control his emotions and will spill them out like an overflowing cauldron._

Finwë sighed and closed his eyes, pressing his temples with his fingers. He was right. Since that disastrous pep talk Indis had had with Fëanáro about their wedding, his son had grown ever more restless. _I don’t know what to do, Rúmil._

 _Perhaps there is nothing we can do, except love him_ , the lambengolmor mused.

 _Are you telling me he has not been loved enough?_ A flash crossed the King’s eyes, his voice sounding as imposing as when he went to Council meetings.

 _You know that is not what I meant, Finwë,_ he said gently. _He has an intense_ _need to feel loved –_ _who hasn’t, anyway? But I can’t tell you how he measures the love he receives. It might_ _never_ _be enough_.

The king looked alarmed. This was a dangerous thought. In a matter of months, Fëanáro turned from a lovely boy into a rebellious young man, responding in high voices to anyone that contradicted him, always kicking chairs, breaking vases, throwing away his own work out of spite. The king knew he had reached _those_ terrible years of youth when a person struggles to find his or her place in the world but never imagined his relation with Indis would be the catalyst of such violent emotions.

 _He feels_ too _much. At first, I thought he was being overdramatic, but there's a limit on how much I can ignore his tears and screams and scenes…_ another sigh.

 _And yet, he is the Spirit of Fire. There is a chance it is not mere drama._ Finwë looked at him, waiting for the conclusion of that thought. _He might actually feel things more intensely than we all. I couldn’t say without experimenting on him, which I will not,_ he added quickly, seeing the outraged look on the king’s face. _Nevertheless, it is a possibility. Only the Valar would know._

Finwë scoffed. _We both know how they see this matter. They would tell me Fëanáro’s spirit is so strong and dangerous it would be better to lock him away as a safety measure._ He never forgot Manwë’s pronunciation about his son. It had been shockingly audacious, even for the Valar, but he could never speak against it, not openly. He knew Rúmil felt the same way, for he also loved his son and would do what was in his power to help him. But there were some things, such as this, not even the wise master would openly fight.

 _What do you suggest I should do?_ He asked the master at last. The silver-haired Noldo was also lost in thoughts and drew his gaze back at the king.

 _Never hide anything from him again. He felt betrayed._ It was not a reprimand, merely a fact. _He is becoming unsurprisingly good at reading someone's faces and emotions,_ the lambengolmor smiled with pride for his pupil.

Finwë sighed again. That was going to be hard. How was he supposed to hide adulthood secrets from that curious boy? It was nearly impossible to hide anything at all! When the prince put his mind into something, it was inevitable he would find answers – it didn't matter which.

 _Yes, it’s not going to be easy, my friend_ , Rúmil's smile quirked on the corner of his mouth. _But that is the price, I think, for such an astonishing mind such as his_.

The price. Finwë felt that was another taste of bitterness in his tongue as if Rúmil's words contained more prophecy than facts. Míriel left him, left _them_ , because of her son’s uncontrollable spirit. Now the only other person he trusted Fëanáro with confirmed the very thing he hated looking upon: his son would prove a soul too great to this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lambengolmor (Q): literally "philologist", loremasters of the Elves.


	3. A blessing from the Valar

Finwë was sitting in his study. The waining light of Laurelin was tinging the walls in rich gold and his eyes were unfocused, lost in thought. He was reclining in his chair, holding his mouth and chin with the right hand, the other cupping his elbow. And he remembered, a frown between his brows, how the year had passed by. Again, he had to agree with Rúmil: it had been too soon.

All of it. His engagement, the marriage, taking Fëanáro to stand against the scrutiny of the noblemen and women of the Court in Tirion and now, he thought closing his eyes, the latest news only added up on the pile of resentment in his son’s heart. Fëanáro had barely spoken to him since he told him about the pregnancy, almost a year ago.

At first, he imagined if Fëanáro truly knew what it meant, but who was he trying to fool? Of course he knew! That boy seemed to know everything, an answer always ready on the tip of his tongue. He knew he had been hasty, but he didn’t know what he could have done otherwise…

He remembered the shock in his son’s face. Finwë had been overjoyed to learn that he and Indis were having their first child and he certainly approached Fëanáro with the hope that maybe the young prince would also be excited about having someone he could share the world and his discoveries with. Again, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

The king sensed all he did was to make things worse. Fëanáro had reacted pretty much the same way as always, screaming, kicking out furniture and running away from the conversation. He passed his fingers over his eyes, pressing them with a heavy sigh. He often thought about Rúmil’s words: _he needs love, not secrets_ . But how had that worked so far? The prince wouldn’t even give him time to process things: if he saw something different in his father’s face, he would read it as if he was an open book _._ It was exasperating and a little frightening for a child to hold such power at a tender age. Still, Fëanáro wasn’t a little boy, anymore…

That last serious conversation, though, had gone worse than he predicted.

“ _Fëanáro I have some great news”,_ he had said, bouncing with anticipation in his chair. “ _You see… you’re going to have a brother or a sister.”_

Oh, the look on Fëanáro’s face was terrible! He had known from that moment, the prince’s mute answer in his wide eyes, that he had lost that battle. He had tried to convince his son, and now his words sounded absurd in his head.

“ _Can you imagine, my son? You won’t feel so alone anymore!”_

“ _But I… I don’t feel alone!”_

“ _Oh, you say this now but soon you will have a friend, someone to talk to!”_

“ _I don’t want a brother and I don’t want anyone else to talk to!” Fëanáro snapped. “I can talk to you and Rúmil!"_

“ _It is not the same thing, Fëanáro! He will be closer to your age!”_ his father tried reasoning, but Fëanáro’s chest was already heaving, his eyes shining with another type of dangerous spark.

“ _I don’t care about that!”_

“ _But you will, you’ll see, you’ll have someone to share secrets with, a true friend!”_

How, for Varda’s sake, did he think to tell him this was a good idea? It had been an awful one, but it had slipped from his lips faster than he could think of a better thing to say.

“ _You promised me! You said I was yours and you were mine, you promised! And you lied!”_

Oh, gods, it sounded awful even now! No wonder Fëanáro felt betrayed and unloved. No wonder, either, why he had avoided his father all theses months and had spent almost his entire day wondering in the library or in Rúmil’s house.

“ _Fëanáro you are not a small child anymore. I cannot be your only friend”_ , he said, trying to sound calm. It was the only thing Finwë didn’t regret having said because it was true. Although, he admitted, those were a poor choice of words.

“ _Why? Am I not enough?”_ he said coldly, hurt and anger burning in his eyes.

_Finwë went pale. “How can you even think something like that? Do you think I am going to replace you? How can you say that when you know that is impossible?”_

Fëanáro lowered his eyes frowning and biting his lower lip. “ _You promised me!”_ he sobbed.

“ _We have talked about this before, Fëanáro. I will never stop loving you...”_ he said, and Fëanaro’s eyes brightened with a flicker of hope _“but another child in this family is a blessing from the Valar. I am happy. Can’t you feel happy for me?”_

“ _I want you to be happy, father,”_ he said finally, in a low voice.

“ _I know, Curufinwë, I know”,_ he stroke his son’s hair _. “But you_ must _understand nothing, no one, can steal me away from you! Not now, not ever.”_

It was a low move and he also knew it. He knew his son could never resist that plea, as he didn’t. He just didn’t know what else to do. He tried approaching his son these last months without success as if the prince had erected a wall of white fire between them.

 _Give him time_ , Rúmil had said. It was easy for him to say. He knew the lambengolmor had a good relationship with all his pupils and wards, but the connection between Fëanáro and him seemed special and had certainly deepened. He also wasn’t sure how much Rúmil influenced his son, but he trusted him. If he could find a way of talking to Fëanáro, he would.

A soft knock came from the door. “Enter”, he said without moving.

“Sire?”, he heard Laríel say.

He looked back at her from over his shoulder and the maid was smiling broadly. She had a bloodied apron and was drying her hands on a white cloth. He tensed and turned in full to face her.

“Congratulations, Sire. It is a beautiful, healthy boy.”


	4. No measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Encairion for helping me with the editing!

One of Nolofinwë’s first memories was not of his parents. Oh, of course he remembered images of them, the first people he recognized and loved. But the first memory Nolofinwë truly remembered as a growing child was of his big brother. He remembered distinctively the first time he saw Fëanáro.

He was in the garden with Laríel and a bunch of other babies from their household. His grandfather Ingwë was there, and his mother also, but she was engaged in conversation with some of the Teleri folk that often came to the city those days, including Olwë and his daughter Eärwen, who was already too old to play with the toddlers and stood beside her father like a blossoming waterlily. Besides his mother, there was another woman, and they were confiding, laughing and holding each other’s arms. The other mothers were around, but it was Laríel who was keeping a close eye on the kids, separating disputes over toys, fixing crumpled tunics, combing back and braiding hairs and making sure all of them got their shares of honey cake.

Nolofinwë couldn’t say he remembered why they were all gathered, but it seems it was one of the kids Begetting Day because there was a lot of food and a lot of presents – although, sadly, none were for him. All of the heads turned when they heard a young boy’s voice crying from the top of the walls and running like a hurricane in their midst.

“Father! Father! Look! I have done this for you!”.

The air around him seemed to shift and become warm as if someone had just lit a fire. Not that Nolofinwë could put that into words yet. It was more of a _feeling_ that spread through his little body like the caress of the sun.

He looked at his big brother’s face for the first time and saw his eyes shining so bright, so bright the beams of the Trees seemed nothing compared to it. His broad smile, with its perfect white teeth, illuminated his face. His black hair, braided to his waist, danced behind him like silk. His voice was sonorous and musical.

And, from that moment on, Nolofinwë loved him.

He watched with huge eyes as Fëanáro showed their father a crystal figure sculpted that morning. It was a beautiful eagle, wings widespread in a predatory pose. Finwë held the bird in his hand, agape with the smoothness of the finishing, the details and the way the light moved inside it.

“It is beautiful!”, someone told him. The boy didn’t smile. He needed only his father's approval, no one else’s.

“This is truly remarkable, my son”, their father said. Now the smile deepened, and Nolofinwë felt like he was being dragged into his brother’s aura. He had indeed come close, but his little legs weren’t fast enough. As swiftly as he came, Fëanáro kissed Finwë’s cheek and left, running up the stairs and back into the palace. He didn’t so much as glimpse at Nolofinwë, completely oblivious of his little half-brother.

That didn’t hurt Nolofinwë’s feelings nor was it enough to make him give up. He was too little to be beaten down by rejection. He decided he would love his brother no matter what, even if his brother didn’t love him back. He wouldn’t care. As long as he was around his big brother, with that smile and that warm aura around him.

So, from that day on, every time he was near Fëanáro, he tried to make any kind of contact. It didn’t work. Not even a disinterested look. But he didn’t care. He knew he loved his brother and that, one day, he would notice it.


	5. The beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Encairion for the incredible editing tips!

When the baby came, Fëanáro wouldn’t stand to be in the same room as _it_. He knew it was a boy, and his heart still ached with the idea he would have to share his father with yet another person. It was already too much to share! That made him retreat even more from social contact. It was difficult enough to be alone with the king, and since the baby was born, it got worse. Finwë was always surrounded by his councilmen or his wife and the newborn.

He would spend most of his time avoiding the growing baby, even if it also meant avoiding his beloved father, as well. If he could have avoided the sight of his half-brother entirely, he would have. But that meant spending years without having meals in the same room as his father, which Finwë was vehemently against.

“Stop this nonsense at once, young man!” his father had yelled when he brought the idea up.

Fëanáro had to resign himself to seeing the child every day, listening to his incomprehensible cooing. Fëanáro didn’t waste another look on him and didn’t care how dark his hair looked or how adorable his little fingers were.

The baby, however, used to spend all meals attempting to reach his big brother, whatever his curious fingers would touch first: his elbows, his hair, his fork, his slice of bread. When Fëanáro felt it was impossible to concentrate on anything with all that babbling going on, he would excuse himself and would go to his rooms.

But then things started taking a darker turn. The first alarming sign was that he, the talkative boy, became silent on meals. Indis was very pleased with his politeness, but his father knew better. He tried to encourage Fëanáro to share his thoughts as he once did but, as soon as he started talking, he was interrupted by the baby. Thus he spoke less and less until the point he would eat as fast as he could and would ask permission to leave with the same excuse: he needed to finish his studies. It was not a lie, after all. At that point, his father also seemed to have given up and would let him go.

It was true, though. Finwë tried dissuading him of all this whim, but it was of no use: Fëanáro was as stubborn as a mule. As he approached the critical years of youth, his personality was increasingly “dramatic” - as his father insisted on putting, even though in his heart Fëanáro knew he didn’t make any more drama than the Queen.

It was just how he felt, and he felt so intensely, so deeply it was, most of the time, scary. He and Finwë had epic fights about his tempers, and more often than not, it was these very discussions which made Fëanáro increasingly angry. It was like pouring fuel into an already overheated fire.

The only time Fëanáro and Finwë would reconcile were those not so rare moments where the brilliant young man would bring up something he had written or crafted. Finwë was ever overwhelmed by his son’s capability of improving his skills each day, before his very eyes. Then, and only then, they would talk like they did before, and Finwë was able to show his son the love he bore. Fëanáro would kiss him on the cheek, frustrations hashed, until the next storm broke out

Apart from those moments, however, constant arguments with his father about everything made him skittish, and, if he was already withdrawn from social interactions in his childhood, his youth was even worse. He would spend a significant part of his day in endless discussions with Rúmil about all things concerning Arda. He would go to his master’s house and spent hours helping him in anything he could until he was sent off sulking. But because of this approach, his studies advanced in a way no one, not even Rúmil, could have predicted.

He would come back from his master’s house and fly to his desk, writing down ideas, theories, mathematical formulas, chemical combinations… his pen wasn’t as fast as his thoughts, and his first drafts were messy notes that he would have to lose time to copy appropriately. He didn’t have that time.

One of these last meetings with the lambengolmor was so intense, so rich with speculations, he didn’t even remember returning to his chambers. He didn’t even make it into the chair before he started pouring out ideas, scratching mistakes, and scribbling across the paper with enough ferocity for the paper to catch fire. He hadn’t closed the door, and a small opening showed the glow of the torchlight on the corridor.

He felt, more than saw, the door being slightly pushed. With the corner of his eye, without raising his head from the paper, a thought brushed his mind: it was just the wind. When he finished writing, with a sense of triumph, he stood up quickly. If he was proud of this, so would his father be. But then his chair stumbled on something behind him. He looked down and froze for several seconds, something he hadn’t done all day.

Nolofinwë was looking up at him with a pair of enormous blue eyes. Fëanáro didn’t know what to do. He had knocked him to the floor, but the boy didn’t say anything, merely stood up to face him.

“What are you doing here?”. No answer. “This is my chamber, you cannot come uninvited,” he tried, a little more emphatically.

“Will you invite me?” the baby replied in his little voice.

“No, I am busy. Go find Laríel or your mother”, he tried moving the child from his path, pushing his shoulder to the side, but it came back to stare at him again.

“Laríel is cooking. Mother is busy,” he said, standing his ground.

“And what do I have to do with it? My chamber is not a playground. Get out, _now_!” he said the last words in the same harsh manner that would make his father cringe and start yelling at him.

What happened, then, was entirely unexpected. Nolofinwë’s little face was frowning like he was angry, but he didn’t tremble or cry. Instead, without blinking, a single thick tear dropped and rolled down his soft cheeks. He kept staring at his big brother with defiant eyes, daring to be sent out.  
  
Fëanáro stared back at the child at his feet. Only now, Fëanáro realized how beautiful his eyes were.

And his little face was set hard, something he had never seen in a child before. Well, it’s true he hasn’t been around many children, but still…

He looked at the door for one second, trying to think of what to do. He had never been alone with his half-brother before. When his sight came to the child again, he was no longer there. He had climbed to Fëanáro’s bed and was tucking himself in, making a mess of the blankets and pillows.

“What are you doing, Nolofinwë?” he said with a sigh, but, to his surprise, no longer irritated. The boldness of his half-brother stirred some deep emotion inside of him. He had no name for that yet. “Fine. But if you want to stay here, you must be quiet.”

His brother nodded vehemently, and Fëanáro helped him in, setting a pillow and covering him with soft blankets.

“Will you tell me a story?”

“No, I said I am busy,” he said, concentrated on the pillows. But when he dropped his eyes, and his gaze met Nolofinwë’s, he changed his mind again without knowing why. Gods, those eyes! It was like they were looking _through_ him!

He quickly stood up and searched for one of his books about the fauna and flora of Aman, giving it to the child. His brother took it eagerly, a broad smile on his face.

“You can see the pictures in it,” he said, because it was evident that toddler didn’t know how to read.

Nolofinwë laughed softly and hugged the book against his little chest. Fëanáro couldn’t help himself, and a faint smile grew on the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, trying to come back to his senses. He was fraternizing with the enemy!

As if he had heard, the baby looked back at him, and those astonishing blue eyes turned his guts inside out. _What is going on with me?_ He thought, without breaking the gaze from his brother. He had never felt like this before, this feeling of being… what was the word? _Read_? Like he was the only book Nolofinwë could completely understand. He blinked and, before he could think further on it, the connection was gone.

Well, the fact that the baby was so at ease with a book that size, hugging it with devotion, must be a good sign. Maybe, just _maybe_ , he wasn’t that bad. After all, it wasn’t Nolofinwë’s fault he was born.

His brother’s eyes reminded him, strangely, of another topic of his previous conversation with Rúmil about the color of stars. His master had asked him if they, indeed, had any at all, and Fëanáro had begun theorizing about the spectrum of colors they could see with the naked eye and the fact that white wasn’t, in fact, a color, but a combination of them all.

He sat back in his desk, working with the soft sound of paper being turned behind him. He lost himself in his work, as usual, and it wasn’t until Telperion’s light was high in the sky he lifted his head with a satisfied sigh. He would show this to Rúmil the next day.

He stood up and saw that his half-brother was fast asleep, one little hand on the cover, holding the book as it was one of his favorite toys. Fëanáro tried to pick him up, but the boy opened his eyes as if he had been waiting for Fëanáro to come close. He startled and withdrew, afraid he would cry or, worst, call for his mother.

“Can I stay?” he asked in a soft sleepy voice, tousled black hair falling in his face.

Again, Fëanáro didn’t know what to say.

“Why?” he managed to ask with a frown. He didn’t know the first thing about babies and didn’t understand why this child would want to stay with someone he barely had relations with. No, correcting himself, they didn’t have _any_ relationship – apart from those failed intents over meals.

“Because I love you.”

Fëanáro’s head jerked back as if he had been punched. He stared at those eyes and felt a new constriction in his throat. He nodded, not knowing exactly what he was doing. He was a proud prince, but he didn’t find it in his heart to ditch the child in the middle of the night – and certainly not after that… what was it, a child’s confession?

Nolofinwë jumped to his feet, chuckling, and flung his little arms around Fëanáro’s neck. That was, also, completely unexpected. For a couple of heartbeats, the only thing he could feel was the baby’s body pressed against his. He was angry with himself that the boy had caught him so off-guard, but, at the same time, he realized he had lifted his arms and was hugging the child back.

After a few moments, it was Nolofinwë who disengaged and sank back in the pillows, an adorable smile on his mouth. Fëanáro undressed to his nightclothes and said: “Go on, give me room. Move to that side.” Nolofinwë shifted to the left and gave his half-brother space. Fëanáro turned his back to him. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if his brother’s huge eyes were staring at him like that, like they were stripping off his very soul.

“Good night, Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë said in a perfectly happy tone.

“Good night,” he whispered back.

***  
  
Fëanáro woke up and saw that he was cuddling Nolofinwë against his chest. He didn’t know how they had come to that, but he didn’t try to disentangle. If felt oddly comforting. Drifting from sleep to awareness, struggling to keep his eyes open for more than one minute, he was wrapped by the smell of his half-brother’s little head. A sweet scent emanated from his hair, like honeyed apples.

The child was so small, so vulnerable it made his heart pound, again unexpectedly. He had a sudden urge to protect him, embracing the body with his own, tightening his grip. He looked so peaceful, messy strands of black hair falling on his face. They laid together until the mingling of the lights began to brighten, and Laurelin’s beams outstretched its golden fingers to Fëanáro’s front, making him open his eyes and blink drowsily.

This time, he took his brother in his arms, laid him carefully in his shoulder, and carried him to his own bed. Nolofinwë didn’t protest. He looked like a fragile little bird. Fëanáro pulled the blankets to Nolofinwë’s chin and returned to his chamber with a strange feeling on his chest as if a stone had been removed.

If it was his brother’s presence or the intensity of his gaze, he could not tell. It was something he must investigate later. For now, he had a lot of work to do. He bathed quickly, gathered his studying material and strode down to the library. It was yet early, and the place was dark and empty. He didn’t mind; it wasn’t the first time he would “open” the library. It was very likely Rúmil would come to meet him here, as he often did when Fëanáro didn’t go to his house.

He started by putting in place the books he had already read and picking up those that talked about the matter of stars. There were only a few of the scholars who still spoke of the Great Journey, and fortunately, Rúmil was one of those. But, wise as the lambengolmor was, he didn’t digress much about the components of the cosmos.

Rúmil had once said he was more interested in studying how their languages had evolved since the Awakening; others studied more practical matters like plants, craftsmanship of many types, embroidery – like his mother, Míriel, who was the most talented in that art – music and, later, blacksmith. No one asked the stars any questions, because there was nothing to ask they couldn’t discover themselves. At least, not until the Dark came.

Invariably when they reached that subject, his master grew silent and said no more. It was rare to hear Rúmil talk about the Unbegotten, although he knew the stories from books and others: his father, Finwë, had been there, with the other kings of Eldar: Ingwë of the Vanyar, Olwë from the Teleri and many who had not crossed the sea.

The subject attracted Fëanáro like a magnet. Whatever they started discussing, they would always return to the Great Journey, and what the world was like before. But as they relaxed into the discussion, Rúmil would suddenly stiffen, something like fog covering his eyes. He would stop speaking, as if some higher power had placed its hand over his mouth and silenced him. Rúmil would not continue their lessons after that, no matter how Fëanáro pleaded, and sent him home.

But the youth wasn’t likely to give up, pressing a little more each day. He knew that, if he was patient, one day he would hear the whole tale. Not the simplistic, superficial stories written in words and compelled in the volumes he had in his hands. No, he would listen to the tale _as it was_ , the parts the adults would say it wasn’t for his age yet to learn.

Until he could accomplish that, he would pour over what knowledge he could find in the books. He looked everywhere for the discussion of colors but found very little. Some of the tomes mentioned Mahtan’s craftsmanship, who was the best of the Noldor, but he himself hadn’t written anything. He was mentioned frequently when the subject was jewels, stone, glass, and other materials. Maybe he would need to talk to Mahtan personally about this…

Suddenly, with the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure approaching the table, now covered with books. He didn’t stop reading until his brother started climbing his legs from under the table.

“Nolofinwë, what are you doing? Have I not told you not to interrupt me while I’m studying?”

He shifted in the chair, and the child hit its head hard on the desk. Now Fëanáro was sure he was going to cry, hoping desperately he would not. He pulled the chair back so Nolofinwë could emerge, hand massaging the bump, one eye closed flinching with the pain, but the other fixed on Fëanáro’s face.

“Can I stay?” he asked, halfway up his big brother’s lap.

“You are already here, are you not?” Fëanáro answered, secretly admiring Nolofinwë’s stubbornness. It was, he suddenly quirked his mouth in a displeased thought, very much like his own. He picked his brother up and tried moving him to the chair beside his own, but Nolofinwë clung to his neck and hair and managed to sit down on his lap. He sighed. Nolofinwë giggled and touched the parchment.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you…”, he answered, rolling his eyes. How many times would he ask?

“What’s that?”

“This? ‘Tis the alphabet. These are words.” he said, unsure if he could understand. Even though at his age he could already read, he didn’t know if his half-brother was made of the same material.

He was astonished to hear his brother’s voice spelling slowly: “Ssss-tar.”

“Yes, that’s what’s written!” he said, without noticing he was smiling. “I’m finishing my study about the aspect of stars and their paths on the sky, their shapes, and aspect of their brightness.”

His brother looked up, eyes huge, clinging to each word. His big brother was _actually_ explaining things to him, and he couldn’t be more delighted. Fëanáro saw the eager look on his half-brother’s face and continued talking because Nolofinwë wouldn’t stop staring.

Telperion’s light was already intense when Laríel came into the library and saw the two brothers engaged in what seemed a one-way conversation: Fëanáro was talking, explaining things with his hands, drawing so his brother could _see_ and Nolofinwë was eating up every word. She smiled at that scene and called for them.

“My princes,” to which Fëanáro looked up. “It’s past time both of you had something to eat, and it’s almost time for Prince Nolofinwë to go to bed.”

“Already? I completely lost track of time,” Fëanáro said, letting Nolofinwë slip to the floor and gathering his things in haste. He knew how his father disliked when he forgot about meals with the family. “Is father upset?” he asked the maid.

“I don’t know, dear, I came by my own account to find prince Nolofinwë,” she smiled, reaching a hand to the child, who hesitated.

“I want to go with Fëanáro,” he said, reaching for his brother’s hand.

“It’s all right, Laríel, I will bring him in.”

She smiled and left Fëanáro to finish packing his things. It took him a little longer since Nolofinwë wouldn’t let go of his hand, fingers holding tight on his. He walked out of the library, his brother trotting and humming a tune by his side. He took the child to Laríel, who was waiting in Nolofinwë’s chamber.

“Come on, dear, it’s time for a bath,” she smiled, taking his hand. Nolofinwë looked back at Fëanáro.

“Do as Laríel bids you,” and a faint smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. When his half-brother had gone in, he ran through the corridors dreading the scolding he would receive for being late.

His father didn’t look pleased when he entered the living room. They were already finished, and he purposely missed his stepmother’s sour look. He sat down and started talking to his father about his day as if nothing had happened, putting slices of bread and pieces of dried fruit on his plate.

“Sorry, father, I got delayed. I am almost finishing my study about the charting of stars in the sky, and I was fascinated-”

“Frankly!” Indis said in a low tone, but he heard it. Why did she _always_ had to interrupt him? He continued as if she hadn’t.

“-to learn that they form shapes that repeat themselves like patterns, or as if they pointed to a road in the cosmos. Rúmil told me yesterday to look into the quality of how stars shone and why, and we discussed a lot about their colors, and how it would appear to our eyes. And as I was telling Nolofinwë-”

“You _what_?” Indis cut through him in a cold, dangerous tone.

“I was explaining exactly this to Nolofinwë. He was in the library with me and-”

“And what exactly was he doing in the library with you, instead of being outside playing like a normal child?” she demanded.

Fëanáro looked from her to his father, who had his eyes closed and sighed heavily. Normal child. So there it was. He wasn’t a _normal_ child. This was a conversation he had heard before, behind doors, but he decided he wouldn’t care about what this woman thought of him.

“He _came_ to me, and I couldn’t get rid of him.” He was half-lying on purpose. His brother wouldn’t go away, but he didn’t make any efforts to send him off, either. But he would never admit that to her. Anger started building up in his chest.

“Well, I will make sure that doesn’t happen again. My son needs to be outside, not stuck inside a library!”

Finwë was still silent.

“I don’t know what’s the problem for him to be in the library. He doesn’t even know how to read, and it’s past time he learned.”

Indis nostrils flared, a clear indication he had crossed a line.

“You won’t tell me what to do inside my own house, young man. Go to your room, right now!” she said imperatively.

Fëanáro opened his mouth to answer, outraged, but his father raised his hand and said wearily. “Fëanáro, go.”

He pulled the chair so hard it fell behind him. He left the room stomping, anger caught in a knot in his throat. But he didn’t go immediately to his room. He stood outside the door. He heard them speaking in low voices, and then his father said loud:

“This is not the way! It’s healthy for them to be friends!”

“I don’t want my child, _our_ child, to grow up to be such a strange person, Finwë! You know he is! He doesn’t have any friends! He only talks with adults, and is getting more arrogant by the day!” she said, trying to hush down her tone.

“My son is not strange, Indis. He is the most intelligent young man of his age, and I’m sure he will be the most brilliant man in Valinor. I know it. It will do Nolofinwë no harm to be near him.”

Fëanáro’s heart swelled with pride. His father finally was standing up for him! He thought he wouldn’t do, but guessed that he wanted to have this conversation far from Fëanáro’s ears. Why he couldn’t say this to Fëanáro’s face, like he sometimes did, escaped his comprehension. Well, here he was, listening with a smile on his face.

“I don’t like the way he looks at me as if he was better than everyone else,” she argued.

“I will talk to him about it. But you cannot stop Fëanáro and Nolofinwë from being close. They are _brothers_ , for Manwë’s sake!”

It was enough. Fëanáro ran to his chambers, knowing his father defended him, but with a nauseating sensation. He disliked Indis each day more, and he would not let her ruin Nolofinwë with that talk. He would bring his brother to his side, making him look up to him, and to him alone.

He was on his bed, still wallowing on the subject when he heard a soft thump on the door and someone touching the handle. He thought he was going to see his father entering the chamber, but nothing happened. It seemed as if someone was trying to _reach_ for it.

He stood up and opened the door and saw Nolofinwë’s blue-diamond eyes staring up at him. His brother didn’t wait to be invited, he pushed Fëanáro’s legs and ran to his bed, laughing.

“Shh Nolofinwë! Nobody can hear you!” he thought nervously. If his stepmother found out, she would undoubtedly rebuke Fëanáro and, perhaps, forbid them to see each other. His brother put up a small finger is his lips and laughed again, playing with Fëanáro’s sheets, throwing himself on the pillows.

“Can I sleep with you?” he asked as if the answer couldn’t be any other than yes. When Fëanáro didn’t answer, he let out a little scream of joy.

“All right, all right, be quiet!” Fëanáro smiled. He went inside the sheets, and his brother cuddled around him, the warm body touching his.

“Tell me a story?” he asked softly.

Fëanáro didn’t know any stories to tell children, only the things he had learned and read about Endor before the Great Journey. And he started narrating to Nolofinwë the same things Rúmil had taught him, about the stars and their people. Fëanáro recounted about their father and the other great lords, but he didn’t say anything about the Dark God. It wasn’t a lie – something he despised – but a necessary omission. Not that Nolofinwë didn’t deserve the truth, simply because he also didn’t know anything valuable to share.

After a long while, when Telperion’s light was shining bright outside the curtains, Fëanáro looked at him and saw no trace of sleep on the little face. He was impressed his brother had managed to stay up for that long.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked finally, looking inside the blue eyes and searching for the lie. The child shook his head in denial, also looking deep inside his big brother’s eyes.

“Well, it’s past time for you to sleep. Come on.” He adjusted his brother’s pillow, but the child cuddled back up against him and laid his little head on his shoulder. Fëanáro let him embrace his neck. His brother’s hair smelled of lavender soap. He felt strangely at peace under the touch of those tiny hands, the restless fingers playing with his clothes.

It felt good to be close to him. Even if he was her son. Something in Nolofinwë made him feel loved in a new, strange way, and he just let himself drowse into sleep with a satisfied smile on his face.


	6. Childhood is a bliss

Fëanáro opened the door quietly and peeked inside. The room was unsurprisingly empty: they had spent two whole days preparing for this. He felt the pushing insistently at his back.

“Go on, someone will see us!” Nolofinwë said with a nervous voice.

 _Be quiet_! Fëanáro’s eyes flashed, thrusting him back with an arm, and covering his half-brother’s mouth. A shadow covered the light from under the door, and they stood still as statues. When the menace seemed to be gone, Fëanáro peeked again, now seeing the way clear.

They entered silently. Elves’ steps could not be heard, but youths were often clumsy, not yet accustomed to their own bodies. One step after the other, they entered the kitchen and started opening jars, cupboards, and drawers.

“Fëanáro, are you sure you heard it correctly?” Nolofinwë said in a low voice.

“Better than you, thick head,” the older answered from above his shoulders with a smile on his lips. Nolofinwë quirked his mouth and made no reply. “Keep searching,” he whispered. “I will take a look at the pantry.”

Fëanáro opened another door that took him to a spacious garden filled with the scent of different herbs. He crossed the path quickly, afraid that someone might be looking from the windows above. Since his father household all lived in the palace, it was nearly impossible to do something without being seeing. He sensed nothing, though, and ran to the big pantry on the other side.

He opened the wooden door with a tug, and two figures stood out of darkness, making him jump on his skin and almost scream, taken by surprise. Two male servants were inside, messy clothes and hairs, pink tinging their cheekbones and lips red as if bruised. They both looked at the boy with frightened eyes.

Fëanáro put a hand on his chest, trying to control the thrumming of his heartbeats and exhaling loudly.  
  
“You two scared me to my bones! What were you doing here in the dark?” he asked with no reprimand in his voice.

The two servants looked at each other, one significant look that, Fëanáro realized, he would certainly understand if he was an adult.

“We’re sorry we startled you, Prince Fëanáro. We were just…”

“Finish cleaning the jars,” the other added, pointing at a dirty cloth on the shelf.

Fëanáro searched their faces for a moment, and one of them took a step back, jolting with the white fire that gleamed behind his young Prince’s eyes. He knew they were lying, but the language of their bodies didn’t point out to thievery or anything prejudicial to the King.

“Did you find anything?” he heard Nolofinwë’s high pitched voice hissing across the garden.

“Just a minute!” he replied as quietly as he could. And then he turned to the servants, who were cornered between the Prince and the door. “It’s all right, I won’t tell anyone you were here. As long as you do the same.” His face blazed with a smile he was learning to use in his favor.

“Is it a promise, my Prince?” the one that seemed older asked.

“It is. Will you tell me, then, where Lottë hid the cookies for Prince Nolofinwë’s Begetting Day?”

The servants looked at one another briefly and smiled. “We’re sorry, but we cannot,” the same servant replied, pointing his finger to a blue jar on the top shelf on the left. Fëanáro grinned his thanks with the corner of his mouth, letting the two servants pass him by and disappear in one of the many doors that led to their private chambers.

Fëanáro tried to reach the indicated shelf, but it was much above his head. Nolofinwë came running through the path, his footsteps making the slightest of sounds on the turf.

“What took you so long?” he asked impatiently.

“There were two servants in here, doing adults’ stuff. You know… the things we can never know about,” he added, seeing Nolofinwë’s puzzled look. “It doesn’t matter, we made a deal of secrecy, and there is our prize, brother!” he pointed to the jar.

Nolofinwë’s neck bent when he looked all the way up.

“Can you reach it?” he asked Fëanáro.

“No, but I can climb to it.” When he did, however, the shelf swayed dangerously with his weight. His feet slipped, and he had to let go of his grip. “All right, that won’t do,” he sighed. “I’m too heavy to climb it without risking it to collapse. If that happened, even if we got the jar, everyone from father’s household would be here before we could say Aulë.”

“I’ll do it,” Nolofinwë said, looking up as if measuring the fall.

Fëanáro’s first instincts were to say “no.” But if there’s one thing he had learned from his younger brother is that he was as resolute and stubborn as he was – and a lot tougher than his apparent age.

“All right, you go, but take your shoes off. They’re slippery on the wood.”

Nolofinwë’s blue eyes glowed with excitement, and he followed his brother’s advice. He climbed carefully and, in less than a minute, was seated beside the cookie jar and weaving to a smiling Fëanáro. From up there, he felt like he was touching the sky. Well, not exactly: the top of his head gave a soft bump on the ceiling when he positioned himself to climb down.

Fëanáro heard it and said in a worried tone: “Be careful!”

But Nolofinwë didn’t need any other advice. The jar was as big as his head, and he had to hold himself with only one hand. He almost lost equilibrium, feeling his heart race in his chest – and, on the floor, Fëanáro’s heart also gave a jolt of panic, arms stretching to catch a possible tumble.  
  
Nolofinwë, however, was dexterous and nimble. He was growing fast, but his body was lithe like a feather. He landed swiftly on the ground, cheeks rosy with the effort. Fëanáro laughed and hugged him from his shoulders.

“That was brilliant!” his flaring smile and the proud spark of his diamond eyes made Nolofinwë blush, smiling back to his big brother. “Come on, quick!” he took the jar from his brother’s hand and ran back the path on the garden. He was faster – and taller and older! - than Nolofinwë, but he knew Fëanáro wouldn’t just run away and leave him behind. Other kids might, but not his beloved brother.

When he crossed the kitchen, Fëanáro was holding the great door for him. They started running again until Nolofinwë grabbed his arm and making him halt.

“My shoes!” he cried, midway to Fëanáro’s chambers.

“Námo’s balls, Nolvo!” he cursed. Without thinking twice, he gave the jar to Nolofinwë and ran like an arrow back to the pantry. Suddenly they heard voices coming from the corridor that led to the kitchens and then shadows that were going to see them. Fëanáro came back as fast as before with Nolofinwë’s shoes in his hands. The youngster waved urgently with his free hand as if he was saying _come on!_ They exchanged goods quickly, running back to Fëanáro’s chambers, panting and giggling.

Fëanáro closed the door behind them, and both collapsed on the floor, bursting with suppressed laughter.

“That was close!” Nolofinwë said, throwing his shoes aside and sitting on the rug. Fëanáro sat in front of him, and before they opened the jar, he covered the lid with one hand and looked earnestly at his brother.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”. His half-brother looked at him in such disbelief he chuckled. “These are, after all, the cookies for your birthday!”

“Are you _serious_? After my epic climb and our heroic escape? If you have doubts, I can have your share.” That made Fëanáro laugh even louder, and Nolofinwë smiled delightedly. He loved making his brother laugh.

“Don’t even think about it, háno!” Fëanáro smiled mischievously, grabbing the jar for himself.

“Give it back, Fëanáro!” Nolofinwë laughed and jumped on him. They almost cracked the jar open and, after a few more wrestling and laughs, decided it was better to eat the cookies from the pot than from the floor. They ate as many as they could until their bellies were sick with all the sugar.

“Come here, let’s wash.” Fëanáro took his brother’s hand and dragged him to the bathroom.

They bathed together, Fëanáro washing his youngster’s hair and, after that, they jumped on the bed, still remembering their adventure.

“What will we say if Laríel finds out?” Nolofinwë asked unconcernedly.

“Well… I think just one tiny, innocent lie won’t do any harm,” Fëanáro mused.

Nolofinwë snorted and laughed out loud.

“What?”

“ _Of course_ we are going to lie! Did you really think we were going to tell the truth?” he roared on his belly, infecting Fëanáro, who laughed at his brother’s reaction.

“You little demon!” he replied, tickling Nolofinwë and making him scream louder. “You know I don’t like lying to anyone. But in this case, if someone asks, we’ll deny and say we know nothing of it.”

“And the two servants who saw you?”

Fëanáro remembered the frightened look on their faces when they were discovered. “They won’t say anything.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m your big brother, and I’m telling you so. Don’t you trust me?”

“No,” Nolofinwë said, teasing, only to receive another round of tickles.

“All right, that’s enough,” Fëanáro said, elbowing him affectionately. “We only need to find a place to put the empty jar.”

“Can’t we just put it back?”

“We could, but it’s going to be complicated. They will surely now it was us.”

“How can you tell?” Nolofinwë asked in awe of his big brother’s assumptions.

“It’s just too obvious.”

“Oh, I know! Let’s bury it in the garden! No one will ever look after it!”

Fëanáro looked pleasantly surprised. “Yes! It’s _perfect_! We can do it tonight, so there will be no evidence in the morrow. How could I have ever lived without you, little brother?”

Nolofinwë gave him an ear-to-ear grin with a brilliant blue-eyed gaze like the night sky that was a pure reflection of Fëanáro’s own feelings.

That night they escaped through the window when the palace was silent, and Telperion’s light was still pale. Fëanáro dug a hole with Nolofinwë’s toy shovel, and they buried the jar. Fëanáro recited a mocking prayer to the dead cookies that resembled one of Manwë’s boring speeches during festivals. Nolofinwë went purple, trying to hold his laughter, and, because of that, both of them had to sit down before they peed themselves on. When the inappropriate chortle had subdued, Fëanáro wiped the tears from the corner of his eyes and helped his brother climb the window up back to his chambers.

They spent long minutes washing the dirt from their hands, and when they finished, Nolofinwë’s eyes were closing with tiredness. Fëanáro didn’t say anything. He made his brother go inside the covers and tucked himself in beside him. They had already made this a habit since that first night, Nolofinwë asked him to stay. He joined their brows, and the trace of a smile showed in Nolofinwë’s sleepy face.

“Good night, polda háno.”

“Good night, little brother.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Fëanáro kissed Nolofinwë’s head quickly and draw him into a hug that took them into sleep until the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> háno: (Q) brother  
> polda háno: (Q) big brother
> 
> Sources: Parf Edhelen and a Quenya-English dictionary.


	7. Right-hand man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Encairion helped me with the editing, so this text is legible because of her!

The first beams of Laurelin had not yet hit Nolofinwë’s eyes when he woke up. His heart was already racing in his chest, anticipating the day he was about to have. That same week he had asked his brother if he could join him at Rúmil’s house for one of their philosophical discussions – not as a student, but as a _peer_. To his absolute delight, Fëanáro had said yes. Now he opened his eyes imagining if he was going to make a fool out of himself.

He looked at his brother sleeping by his side, peacefully, strings of black hair falling on his face. Nolofinwë brushed the strands back and pressed a swift kiss on his half-brother’s cheek. Fëanáro made a throaty “mmm” sound, dreams stirred by the kiss.

“Wake up, brother,” Nolofinwë said with a husky sleepy voice, which was starting to sound more low pitched as he was “sprinting up,” as Laríel used to say.

Fëanáro shifted his head to the other side but remained in the same position. Nolofinwë smiled and jumped out of bed. He put on his shoes and went quickly to his room, to bathe and get dressed. His hands were slightly shaking when he started lacing his tunic. What if he disappointed Rúmil or, worse, his brother? He was around Fëanáro long enough to know he could never even begin to comprehend his deep philosophy insights, or how his brilliant mind worked. He was very aware, however, that anything could trigger his imagination, and he would spend hours explaining theories and new discoveries to Nolofinwë. He drank every word his big brother said like a man athirst, and Fëanáro often smiled at him, unconscious of the adoration look on his face.

Finwë kept the majority of his compliments to Fëanáro’s many accomplishments. Nolofinwë didn’t resent his father and didn’t envy Fëanáro. He understood Finwë: sometimes his half-brother could be so utterly prodigious they lacked for words. And now he had started reviewing some of Rúmil’s work of linguistics and Quenya, even their master seemed more aghast than usual with his pupil’s progress.

His mother, on the other hand, gave them both a hard time. She clearly disliked Fëanáro’s brilliancy – which she openly called insolence – and his many manias, like talking non-stop during meals, especially about things which she couldn’t follow. To some degree, Nolofinwë knew his brother did it on purpose, and he cringed at the idea of their mutual hatred, but he wasn’t going to interfere.

Luckily, one thing she didn’t complain about anymore was that Fëanáro was a bad influence over him. Nolofinwë’s own development and growth as a diligent student had changed her mind about his half-brother’s “ruining” him. He certainly didn’t think Fëanáro ruin him at all. His mother eventually gave in, simply because Nolofinwë, if not as gifted as his brother, was resourceful, perspicacious and showed to be wise at a very young age.

When he had finished dressing, he went back to Fëanáro’s chamber and opened the door. Fëanáro was shirtless, sleepy eyes staring at him, messy hair looking like a black lion’s mane. His brother looked a little older now, and it was clear he was approaching his Coming of Age years. He had _undoubtedly_ grown a few more inches, which made him over a head taller than Nolofinwë.

“Gods, háno, that hair needs help,” Nolofinwë said, laughing.

“Please,” it was all Fëanáro could answer, giving him a bone comb.

He reached for a white tunic and slip it over his head before sitting on the bed to put on his shoes. Nolofinwë knelt behind him and started combing and braiding. It took him a little while, considering he was not entirely used to do this for someone else. Fëanáro looked in the mirror when he was done and smiled his thanks. They were dressed similarly. Nolofinwë had black breeches and a blue tunic that reflected the stunning blue of his eyes, and Fëanáro wore brown breeches and a white tunic. Fëanáro had told him not to worry about Rúmil. He was a friend of the family, and these gatherings were casual.

The lambengolmor’s house was a little away from the palace, in the more prosperous part of Tirion. Both of them used to walk there for their daily lessons, appreciating the view and the movement of the street markets. They waved hands and smiled as people saluted them with “My Princes!” There were always lords on the main square, in or out of the council, discussing public affairs – and private ones, as well.

One of the lords, Yanattë, approached them with a bow. When he started small talk, Nolofinwë could read the irritation in Fëanáro’s face. They had kept their conversations brief, avoiding to stop in one place for too long, but this one had made them halt; soon they were surrounded by nobles asking them a thousand irrelevant things that certainly didn’t concern any of them. Fëanáro kept his mouth, like his face, closed, while Nolofinwë spoke for both of them. Some of the remarks weren’t irrelevant, but slightly annoying.

“Prince Curufinwë,” called a nobleman he didn’t know, “I read the article you published about the sarati and your comments on Rúmil’s excellent work. You cannot be serious when you say we need a reformation, are you? The system Rúmil created has been perfected to its maximum, it certainly doesn’t need any change.”

“Rúmil agrees with me,” was the only thing Fëanáro could answer behind his teeth.

Nolofinwë sensed his brother’s patience growing thin. “Yes, my brother’s remarks have captivated our loremaster. In fact, we are going there now to continue the discussion. If you will excuse us. Gentlemen.” Nolofinwë bowed his head, Fëanáro did the same, and they started walking faster down to Rúmil’s house.

When they could finally get rid of the group that had gathered around them, Fëanáro let out a loud sigh. Nolofinwë took his hand and squeezed it. The eldest looked at him, impressed with his little brother sounding like an adult, and smiled, squeezing the hand back.

“Thank you, brother.”

Nolofinwë only smiled reassuringly. Fëanáro hated the politics and had no patience for those loosened-tongue fools who thought they could make such criticism about his work without have any knowledge of their own. They didn’t understand half the things Fëanáro wrote but felt it was their right to talk about them anyway – as if Fëanáro didn’t have enough credits to discuss these subjects. He wasn’t of age yet, but all the masters in Valinor agreed he didn’t have to wait to be older: his theories and writings were as enticing – and, sometimes, revolutionary – as they could get. He was indeed young, but it was not a lack of genius that bothered the noblemen.

The two princes didn’t let go of their hands until they reached Rúmil’s door. They were greeted by a servant, who took them into the lambengolmor’s private study and library. The walls were covered in books from the ceiling to the floor, and the room smelled of scented candles, new parchment and old, dusty books.

When they entered the room, Rúmil smiled and greeted both pupils with a grip on the wrist – a clear sign he was treating them as equals. He made them sit on chairs in front of his table and poured himself spiced wine, which filled the room with its cinnamon and clove scent.

“Someone is going to bring you refreshments,” he smiled. “Fëanáro, I suppose you can have some wine later.”

Fëanáro didn’t argue. It was kind enough of Rúmil to let him drink during their meetings. Elves didn’t get drunk, but youths could be easily influenced by alcohol, and their dealings with it were very much controlled by the elder. Besides, the lambengolmor knew Finwë would _kill him_ if he learned he was getting both their sons drunk before they reached maturity. But Rúmil also felt Fëanáro was not a little boy anymore. They had such grave conversations he sometimes forgot this was a student, not a master, he was talking to. And it amazed him even further.

This time, the boys seemed agitated. Nolofinwë was shifting in his chair anxiously, waiting for the inflow of geniality to take place, and Rúmil smiled at his promising intelligence, which was developing fast. Fëanáro, however, couldn’t shake off the criticism he had received from the lord on the square, and Rúmil quickly picked up on it.

“Would you like to share something?” he asked Fëanáro directly.

The young elf seemed to be expecting the question. He started pouring out his frustration at those old bats who criticized him, having no clue what they were talking about in the first place. He narrated the full episode to Rúmil, who listened with a stern look. He was the only one, apart from his brother, who took Fëanáro’s feelings seriously. Other people, including his own father, dismiss the way he felt, considering it too dramatic. There were few things Fëanáro hated more than to hear someone say his feelings were an exaggeration – or, as Indis once had said, an _act_. It drove him mad.

Now Fëanáro was talking with his hands nervously, sensing the anger building in his stomach.

“That imbecile never used a quill in his life and wants to tell me who is and who's not apt to discuss your work,” he finished, his breaths coming out in heavy pants.

“Don’t mind him, brother. He only said that to make conversation and to give a hint that he knows what happens inside the palace,” Nolofinwë pointed out wisely. Rúmil looked at him, surprised, and smiled.

“Don’t ever let anyone say what you can or cannot do. Neither of you. You are the only ones who can set your own boundaries.” Rúmil leaned on the table with his hip, sipped his wine, and sat down in front of them. “Besides, brilliancy always attracts interested people as well as envious,” he added, smiling with the corner of his mouth.

Nolofinwë felt the master hadn’t spoken to him. He didn’t have one-tenth of his brother’s genius, but the advice was keen, and he took it to his heart.

“Well, then. Fëanáro, as you brought the subject up, have you thought about our discussion last evening?”  
  
Fëanáro seemed to drop the subject instantaneously, his chin raised up haughtily - a movement that was his birthmark. A wicked smile bent his lips up, and he asked arrogantly: “What do you think?”

Rúmil knew this temperament better than most and laughed softly.

“That you have come to me with an answer.”

“Well… yes. A proposition, in fact,” Fëanáro gave him one flashing, defiant smile that made Nolofinwë hold his breath.

Rúmil tossed his head back and laughed louder. He wasn’t making fun of Fëanáro, but this was his genuine reaction to whenever he was intrigued by his pupil’s geniality.

“Make your statement, my Prince,” Rúmil replied, still smiling.

At this point, a servant entered with a tray and set two glasses of icy lemonade before the young princes. Fëanáro, however, remained silent. The servant left, closing the door behind him. Only then did Fëanáro take a piece of parchment from inside the pocket of his tunic and hand it over to the loremaster. Rúmil took it with a riveted look, but, as he unfolded the paper and read it, the smile faded from his lips, and a frown appeared between his brows, eyes flying over the page.

He looked back to Fëanáro in silence, eyes fogged, thinking about the content. By his side, Nolofinwë saw the predatory smile his brother was so masterfully learning how to use. It was the smile of a won battle.

“This… This is…” Rúmil stammered. “You have thought this overnight?”

“Yes, I made a few drafts when I went back to the palace, and that is where I landed. It’s still rough and needs perfection, but I am going to make _that_ my statement when it is fully developed.”  
  
More minutes of silence while Rúmil went back to the parchment, rereading it.

“So let me see if I get this correct…” He put the parchment on the table between them. Nolofinwë leaned on his chair so he could follow up. There was a roughly sketched table with the Sarat alphabet and some new signs written beautifully. His brother’s letter was impeccable. “These letters are the vowel sounds?”

“Yes, I called them the _tehtar_. These signs for vowels should be placed over the consonants to indicate their ‘color,’ as you like to call them.” Fëanáro smiled affectionately. Rúmil was staring attentively at the piece of paper, studying the content as if he was one of the pupils.

“I thought that the consonant followed by a vowel should be a full letter, even though the Sarati will remain the base for this new system. When a vowel has no preceding consonant, it should be used as a carrier for convenience in writing, making it even easier to be identified. You know I prefer the Quanta Sarmë, but for the sake of tradition and brevity, this should work for everyone as well.”

“And what of these characters?” Rúmil pointed to some letters that were outside the table with a question mark beside them.

“Well, these are clearly not fitting the Tengwar alphabet structure. I don’t know if they should fit at all… perhaps I will leave them the way they are. But, as you can obviously see, the syllabic analysis would be very similar. It should work as a general phonetic alphabet in which special arrangements must be made to fit the characteristics of all languages of Valinor.”

Rúmil was broadly smiling while Fëanáro explained about the changes in the sounds, a finger pressing each letter on the paper as he spoke. Nolofinwë looked from the paper to his brother’s face with bewilderment. He understood the whole picture, but some technical details escaped his comprehension. How could Fëanáro have produced such changes in their language was inexplicable to his fresh, young mind.

When Fëanáro was done, the lambengolmor sat back on his chair, both hands entwined in front of his face, radiating a pride Nolofinwë had witnessed only a few times.

“When are you publishing this?” Rúmil asked simply, a twinkle in his eyes. _When_ , not _if_ , Nolofinwë realized. He, too, was smiling at his brother, who gave that lovely, full belly laughter.

“As soon as I can organize my notes properly. I will have to write a full report of how I came up with this, and it’s going to take me some time. But do you like it?” As brilliant as Fëanáro was, Nolofinwë also knew he had his insecurities. He needed to hear the approval from the people that mattered to him.

Rúmil nodded, still fully smiling, and said: “I do. It’s extraordinary.”

Fëanáro felt his aura shimmering with joy, and when he turned to Nolofinwë, he saw such adoration in his brother’s blue-diamond eyes, it made him want to cry.

“What did you think of it, little brother?” he asked, needing Nolofinwë’s approval, knowing he had him by his side, but also curious to know his understanding of the subject.

“It’s bloody brilliant, Fëanáro!” Nolofinwë’s eyes sparkled with pride. “I don’t know how you can come up with such ideas, but it’s just brilliant! You will be looked upon as a reference for this work. It is so…” he looked up to the ceiling, searching for words “popular. If you know what I mean.”

Fëanáro threw back his head and laughed. “I don't. Explain yourself, háno.”

“I know you don’t care for politics, but the changing of the alphabet is a clever political move.”

Rúmil looked at him interested, brows raised as if talking about politics at such tender age was a bold move. It was, Nolofinwë knew. But he enjoyed politics, as awful as it may seem to his big brother. Fëanáro was openly smiling and gave him an encouraging glance.

“Well… a spoken and written language than can be used by all elves in Valinor is a powerful thing. It will unite the clans, making the relations easier.”

“So, you think it will be well accepted?” Rúmil prompted his younger pupil to speak his mind.

“Well, no, I think people will hate it at first,” he said, making the other two laugh. “But change is necessary, brother, I agree with you. Our language has evolved a great deal since the creation of the Sarati. And the Noldor are known for having a soft spot for perfecting things. This is the closest to perfection the Tengwar will ever be.” He was smiling as he spoke, not holding back how proud he was of his big brother.

Fëanáro was still staring at him, a strange, lingering gaze. Nolofinwë held it and saw, there, some deep emotion. His brother was moved by his words, and unshed tears suddenly glistened in his eyes. Fëanáro reached to touch Nolofinwë’s shoulder, gripping it tightly as his father used to do to him when he was younger. His half-brother smiled back at him, putting his hand on top of his.

Rúmil was also smiling at the two brothers, feeling this was a bond that was stronger than anything he had ever seen on Arda. The love they had for one another was palpable, and the lambengolmor added: “Yes, Nolofinwë, I agree with you. It is perfected, and, in the end, it will bring many people to your side, Fëanáro.”

They resumed their conversation about the Tengwar and talked about many other things. Fëanáro explained in more detail the experiments he was trying to replicate, about colors and light, while Nolofinwë drank another round of lemonade and Rúmil poured Fëanáro a little mulled wine. At last, when it was almost nighttime, the loremaster led them to the door. As they were about to leave, he put a hand on Fëanáro’s shoulder.

“I think, my friend, it is time for your studies to take another turn.” A smile folded on his mouth. “You have learned from me everything I could teach you. It’s time your apprenticeship gets hold on something else. Perhaps craftsmanship? You are an exquisite artist, and I am sure that, if you put your mind – and hands – into it, you will excel, as in everything else.”

Fëanáro stopped agape. This was definitely a surprise for him, one he did not envision. Thoughtlessly, he flung his arms around the lambengolmor’s neck and gave him a hug he never had given. Rúmil laughed, a little astounded, but returned the hug. He stepped back gently after a short while and gave one friendly slap on Fëanáro's back.

“Off you go, you two. Nolofinwë, you were remarkable today, and I am very proud of you, too.” The young elf smiled broadly, receiving an affectionate elbow on the rib from his brother. “You, however, still have much to learn and are not dismissed from your studies. I expect you here on the morrow,” he said, but still smiled paternally.

Nolofinwë nodded with a grin and Rúmil watched them go on the road, while the lights of the Trees mingled smoothly.

***

Rúmil closed the door when the Princes had left, still feeling a bit shaken about what just happened. He never had any intimacy with his students, least of all with Fëanáro, albeit he already was the most handsome elf the loremaster had ever laid eyes on. He was approaching manhood years but was still underage. It had been some time, now, since Rúmil first noticed the change in Fëanáro’s body: his shoulders were broader, he was taller, and his face looked more the one of a man than a boy’s.

Nonetheless, he was his _student_. He had never thought on Fëanáro in such a way, and it was quite inappropriate to feel himself blushing and his heart racing to the fiery touch of the younger one. He could still smell the eucalyptus scent of Fëanáro’s hair that seemed to have clung to his skin, intoxicating his senses. He was more than half-hard, and that only increased the awkwardness of it all.

Nolofinwë was not far behind in beauty, even though he had that boyish face that made it impossible to think of him in any way except as of a student. Fëanáro, however… his dazzling smile, the glow in his eyes when he talked about things he was passionate for… he had such _fire_ inside those diamond eyes…

Rúmil left his house for a stroll down the garden. The weather in Valinor was ever the same – warm during the day, cooler in the nights – and he needed to cool down now as he never did before. The last time he was with a male had been exquisite, the memory of it would never leave him. And it had been such a _long damned time_! Rúmil didn’t often think how much he missed his first lover, having to suppress his feelings in front of the Valar – and because of them. He knew the laws, what happened to those who broke them, but if the Valar only knew how he craved for it, how his body was made for it…

Rúmil sighed. Fëanáro had stirred something inside him, things he didn’t allow himself to feel in all those excruciatingly long years. He thought of his pupils’ full lips, the lean body compressed to his and the heat he exhaled; he felt his body responding with the same excitement. This time, though, despite the lewd thoughts that flashed through his mind, he didn’t feel the hands of the Valar veiling his eyes and numbing his judgment as he sometimes did when talking to Fëanáro about the Great Journey.

Oh, he knew better. He knew the Valar were watching him, invading his thoughts, and reading his submissive, weak mind. Yes, _weak_. He had left his lover to his fate, whatever in the Hells happened to him. Rúmil didn’t know if he was dead, he couldn’t think about it. And the constant presence of the Valar obliged him to deviate his thoughts. They could control his mind when they wanted, but, in the unlikely case his lover was still alive, they would never have _him_. Rúmil let go of a sob, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, holding back the pain.

He would deal with whatever there was to deal with Fëanáro another day.

***

When they got back from the lambengolmor’s house, Fëanáro was still talking to Nolofinwë about the Tengwar and the new system, and his half-brother had been listening with keen interest, even though he might be missing the most technical details.

“-the thing is,” Fëanáro said while they entered the dining room together, after washing their hands “I need to rewrite my notes if I want to make anything understandable from that. They are a bloody mess!”

“For Varda’s sake, child, don’t swear on the table!” Indis spat.

Nolofinwë, who sat beside her, rolled his eyes, and Fëanáro hid a grin. He didn’t ask for forgiveness for “swearing.” He couldn’t care less about what the Queen thought of him. Unless his father said something, he wouldn’t, either. Finwë was reading a book while they waited for the food and seemed too concentrated to intervene.

"Anyway, I will probably spend the night doing it so I can give the first draft back to Rúmil in the morrow. I would like to see what he will say when everything is put up together.”

“I doubt he will have something else to say,” Nolofinwë smiled at him.

Fried fish and vegetables were put on the table and, while they were serving themselves. Fëanáro looked at the frown and concerned look on Finwë’s beautiful features and said: “Father, you seem worried.”

“Mmm? Ah, well, politics… there have been… discussions among the lords,” he said vaguely, catching Indis' eye not to talk about work during dinner time.

“Fëanáro might just have something that will stir the lords away from politics for a while,” Nolofinwë teased, eyeing his brother with a smile.

“How so?” their father asked, his curiosity aroused.

“Well…” Nolofinwë hesitated. Fëanáro was looking directly at him now, and his eyes asked for secrecy. The youngest understood that need. “It’s something to be seen,” he added.

The two brothers shared another significant look. “Keeping secrets, are you boys?” Finwë asked with a faint smile on the corner of his mouth.

“Just a few,” Fëanáro replied with the exact same smile. The brothers grinned mischievously to one another and finished their meals silently. If someone knew about them sharing Fëanáro’s bed, they didn’t disclose the news to their parents.

As Fëanáro remained quiet, Finwë wondered what his sons were up to. They shared amused looks, like some private joke, but having them getting along so well was much more than he could have asked for. And although Indis said nothing else, her irritated glances at Fëanáro made him flinch. If only he could have succeeded with her, too…

***

Fëanáro went back to his chambers and very quickly started assorting the papers related to the new language system he had envisaged. But, as much as he wanted to give it back to Rúmil the next day, it was an impossible task. Organizing and rewriting his own notes would take several _weeks_. There were many scattered thoughts, pieces here and there with the evolution of his process.

Not that he actually needed to organize his mind: his thoughts were as sharp as a hunting knife. He wanted to write not only for academic purposes but also in a way that anyone could pick his work and comprehend the transition of systems clearly. This was the hard part: he didn’t know how to _simplify_. His thoughts were highly sophisticated, and sometimes he half-wrote his theories, imagining that the erudite readers who often complained about his assumptions would easily follow his logical thinking – and this is was one of the reasons why he was called arrogant: there were but a handful of people who could do that.

He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated with the amount of work that was going to give him. Learning to simplify was like learning a new skill: it needed a lot of practice time and dedication to go over his writings to edit and rewrite over and over again.

“What is eating you up, polda háno?” Nolofinwë asked from the door. He was leaning against the jamb with his arms crossed on his chest.

“Organizing this…! I want to write more simply so the majority of our people can access it, but I just… will you look at this mess? It’s completely maddening!” he complained, pushing the chair back from the desk and taking physical distance from the problem before he could turn the office over in his exasperation.

“I can help you with that,” Nolofinwë said unpretentiously.

“How?”

“I can rewrite your messy notes and, by doing so, help you organize it in a simpler language.”

“Oh, really?” Fëanáro snorted. “And how is my _little brother_ supposed to know how to do that?” he said tauntingly.

“Because I am as clueless as everyone else,” he shrugged, making Fëanáro laugh softly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nolvo,” Fëanáro said lovingly, giving a head shake and a smile. “You are far from clueless. Your remarks today at Rúmil’s house were simply brilliant! The understanding you have of such things is something I will never be able to comprehend.”

“That is _only_ because politics don’t interest you, brother. If they did, no one would ever be able to surpass you in that subject,” Nolofinwë came closer to him, leaning on the desk with his hip, arms still folded. Fëanáro gave a delicious belly laugh and pushed his brother for a one-arm hug.

“I am not going to deny your help. If you think you can manage yourself reading through these, please, do so. I need to focus on writing. And, of course…” he looked deep into Nolofinwë’s eyes, “I will need your help reading the final version to make sure it’s the right tone.”

Nolofinwë held that gaze, incredulous and exhilarated. “Are you serious? Can I really do that for you?”

Another deep laugh. “Yes, you _must_. You are my right-hand man! The thing is… I want to get started right now. Do you feel like it?”

The youngster answered with an ear-to-ear grin as he placed all notes on the floor and started sorting them out chronologically. Fëanáro helped him at first, knowing he wouldn’t be able to begin retelling how he had come up with the idea, and how the process had evolved, if he didn’t have at least the beginning reasonably ready.

They spent the whole night on that single task, and it was only when Telperion’s light was descending for the mingling hours that Fëanáro finally stopped. He looked at his brother sitting among the scattered notes, dozing off, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Nolofinwë's arm and pulling him up. “That’s enough for today.”

“But we’re not nearly finished!” he protested with a husky, sleepy voice.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to deprive you of sleep for this. Come.”

“I’m sorry, háno, I really thought we could do this faster.”

“It’s all right,” he smiled at his brother. He helped Nolofinwë undress as his brother seemed to be already sleeping on his feet, and he sensed he, too, fell asleep before his head could reach the pillow.


	8. New discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to Encairion for the amazing editing tips!

They have worked on the notes for several days. As they worked and the martial grew into the hundreds of pages, Fëanáro realized he couldn't fit all he wanted to share into one academic article, and decided only a book would do. The two Princes settled into a routine of their own: in the morning, Nolofinwë attended his studies with Rúmil, and when he returned to the palace, the brothers made camp inside Fëanáro’s chambers. Nolofinwë usually brought sandwiches, slices of honey cake, and a jar of icy lemonade, their stomachs fortified for the night ahead, they buried themselves in work.

When the notes had been organized chronologically, Nolofinwë started deciphering his brother’s letter into more legible ones, while Fëanáro poured out his ideas onto the parchment furiously, unable to stop. The only moments they did stop was when Fëanáro broke the quills out of pure emotion – which happened at least twice a day –, and to eat. They didn’t chat, either. The only exception being when Nolofinwë couldn’t guess by any means what his brother wrote, and then they would also take some minutes to talk about that note in particular and where it could be placed inside the book. Only when they were dozing off would they finally bathe and go to bed.

The whole palace observed this new routine, but they weren’t reprimanded. Finwë knew how important this work was for Fëanáro, and how much it meant to his two sons, especially to Nolofinwë, to be able to spend time like this and share such a crucial moment of his big brother’s life together.

By the time he was finished with his part, Nolofinwë knew as much about the subject as he possibly could. Complicated and profound as it was, he grasped his brother’s idea with such passion as if it was one of his own. He had come to understand, like by little, how much his opinion mattered to Fëanáro and was determined his brother would never again feel unsupported. And it was also true that Fëanáro had such power with words that Nolofinwë felt it was nearly impossible to disagree with him – even if he had wanted to.

Having nothing else to do for his part, Nolofinwë decided to just hang out in his brother’s chamber. At the same time, Fëanáro finished putting the book together, writing the missing pieces, scattering parchments all over. Once in a while, he asked Nolofinwë’s opinion about whether a part should go here or there, in an attempt to make the subject as easily accessible as possible. The younger Prince beamed with pride over his big brother’s gentle, warm heart for his desire to include the whole population of Valinor in something so essential as their own language.

It was in those moments he could see what a great king his brother would one day be. Fëanáro never spoke of it, showing less than zero interest in ever wanting to rule the Noldor, but Nolofinwë couldn’t help thinking how a talented orator he was, always getting what he wanted one way or another. He felt his love for Fëanáro so pure, so strong it made him want to cry, to hold him in a tight embrace until the end of times.

When the compulsion felt too eminent, he would go to Fëanáro and pat him on his shoulders, stroking his hair, and massaging his back, giving the assurance and support his words couldn’t. His big brother would, then, look at him with nothing but love in his eyes, and would place his hand on top of Nolofinwë’s for a moment before resuming work. These were quieter times, in which they would enjoy each other’s company in silence.

A week had passed since they started, and then, one night, while Nolofinwë was studying in bed, Fëanáro came to him with a feverish look in his eyes, a pile of parchment in his hands.

“It is done,” he said quietly, handing the book to his brother.

Nolofinwë took the pages eagerly and started reading, eating every word with an attentive gaze. Fëanáro sat beside him, watching his reactions closely, fear climbing in his stomach that his brother might not like the result or would criticize him for being so prepotent – he knew he could be. Fëanáro reclined on the pillows, while his little brother read his finished work with a faint frown between his brows. Seeing his brother thus concentrated, helping him, gave him a frisson of delight. He discovered he felt deliciously thrilled with the experience.

It was the first time ever he shared his unfinished work with someone who wasn’t Rúmil, and the fact that this was his little brother, his _best friend_ , made his heart pound in his chest with an unnamed kind of joy. It took Nolofinwë a good two hours and a half to read it all – it was no shorter than six hundred pages – but at last he turned the last sheet and led out a sigh. He held the book in his hands for a moment, eyes fogged, lost in thought.

At last, he turned to Fëanáro, who couldn’t bear another minute. “For Námo’s balls, say something!”

“Bloody damned gods, brother!” Nolofinwë cursed, still frowning, but also smiling. Fëanáro laughed relieved. Nolofinwë grasped his shoulder and shook it enthusiastically, saying: “Gods be damned,” he swore again, “I swear to you, this is incredible! I confess I underestimated you, Fëanáro.”

The Crown Prince tilted his head a little disappointed, and Nolofinwë continued. “I did because I thought your work couldn’t get more perfect. I was very wrong,” he added, now broadly smiling, worship shining in those blue-diamond eyes. Fëanáro also smiled, and he pulled his half-brother in for a tight hug.

“I couldn’t have done it if it wasn’t for you, pitya háno,” he said fondly.

Nolofinwë snorted. “I am positive you could have done all this by yourself, háno. I merely helped speed the process.”

“Do not underestimate your worth to me,” Fëanáro said sternly, embracing his brother by the shoulders with one arm. “You supported me from the very start, and knowing I can count on you, is the most valuable thing in the world to me.” He kissed the top of his brother’s head, and Nolofinwë chuckled.

“Now, let’s take care of ourselves. I am starving, and you must be tired after reading all that,” he got up, placed the book-to-be on his desk, and started eating a sandwich.

“Will you take it to Rúmil tomorrow?”

“Most likely, but I would like to make a binding before. I wish I had the time to make a copy of it, but I feel that I might lose the timing, so at least I want to make an impression with the presentation.”

“ _Of cooourse_ you do!” Nolofinwë roared with laughter. Fëanáro’s eyes narrowed, knowing he was being teased and threw a pillow at his brother’s head, who giggled and threw another back. It would have been a fair fight if the sandwiches weren’t dripping sauce all over, which obliged them to stop and finish eating.

By the time they were done cleaning the mess of the sauce and bathing, Nolofinwë fell on the bed like a rock. Fëanáro watched him fall asleep almost immediately with a grin, caressing his hair and kissing his cheek.

“Good night, little brother,” he whispered, before falling asleep, too.

***

The next day, the Council was called for an urgent session; the lambengolmor, as one of the most ancient lords of the Noldor, had to attend. The Princes didn’t know what the content of the meeting was, but it seemed important since the Council was held the entire day. Fëanáro felt a little annoyed he wasn’t able to show his work to Rúmil _right away_ , but there was really nothing he could do. It was out of the question to interrupt the Council, and he, despite his lack of interest in politics, knew that something serious might have happened. He discussed the fact briefly with Nolofinwë, but the youngster couldn’t guess any better.

He also felt a little lonely, since his brother had to study for a challenging assignment about botany, and said he would be in the library all day. Fëanáro, however, didn’t feel like spending that joyful day shut indoors, as much as he loved both his brother _and_ the library. So he took a book to the garden and spread himself under a leafy tree. It was one of the advanced physics tomes written by one of the most prominent scholars of Valinor, one who had made the Great Journey.

Drawn to the subject as he ever was, Fëanáro wanted to savor the content seeing if he could learn more apart from the obvious academic purpose. It was not long, however, when he heard the sound of soft silk approaching, the movement of a dress. He looked up and saw a red-haired, freckled girl with a sturdy complexion and gentle brown eyes. Instinctively he put the book down and sat up straight. He had never talked to a girl his age before and found it strange that she came to speak to him.

“You are Prince Fëanáro, are you not?” she began.

“I am. And who are you?”

“So… this is the infamous Crown Prince?” she said, cocking her head, ignoring the question. “I was always curious to see if you were worth the gossip.”

“What gossip?” he asked coldly.

“That you are as arrogant as you are pretty,” her eyes twinkled.

His brows shot up, amused. “Well?”

“You certainly are,” she replied with a mischievous grin. He smiled with the corner of his mouth, waiting for her to continue. “I am Nerdanel, the daughter of Mahtan.”

“Mahtan?” Fëanáro was suddenly interested. “Is your father in the palace?”

“Yes, I accompanied him from the Council. He is still conferencing with the King, and I came to take a stroll in the garden.”

“So… you weren’t _looking_ for me?”

“No, I wasn’t. But I’m glad I found you, my Prince.”

“Fëanáro, please.”

“Fëanáro, then. I heard a lot about you from the other lords. It seems you’re causing a lot of distress among them.”

“And what do you think of that?”

“That if you are causing distress, I already like you.”

He gave a short laugh, finding it odd that he enjoyed her attitude. He didn’t reply but another thought popped up into his mind.

“Nerdanel, do you think your father will agree to speak to me privately when he and my father are done?”

“Well, yes, I am sure he will. As I said, you have made yourself quite famous.”

“Excellent. If you want, I can show you the flowers here.”

The girl blushed and smiled at that, completely oblivious that he was kind for the sake of being kind. Fëanáro had no idea of flirting and felt no interest in doing so with her. But as he walked and talked to the girl, he discovered she was rather agreeable and felt relieved that, at least, he didn’t have to fake.

They walked back to the palace, and, when Finwë and Mahtan left their study, the King said: “It looks like you’ve acquainted yourselves. Good. Mahtan, you remember Prince Fëanáro.”

“By the Gods, how he’s grown!” the elf said in a resonant voice. His hair was the same color as his daughter’s. “Prince Fëanáro, it’s been a very long time since I last saw you, and I can certainly say your name precedes you. A lot is being said about your latest works.”

“Yes, your daughter was kindly filling me in on the gossip. I was hoping we could speak alone for a moment. Father?”

“We are done here,” he nodded, gripping the lord’s wrist and giving a knowing look to his son.

“Nerdanel, it was a pleasure meeting you,” Fëanáro gave her a quick bow, and she blushed, bowing quickly as well.

Fëanáro led Mahtan to the gardens, roaming around the bright yellow and purple flowers.

“So, is it true you are revisiting Rúmil’s work about the Quanta Sarmë?”

“Yes. Indeed I already have a book ready to be published. I was looking for my master’s final approval, but he was busy today.”

“Oh yes, that was a nasty business…” he winced with the memory of the previous discussion. “But I admire your audacity.”

“Thank you, but I wanted to discuss another matter with you,” he wanted to get to the point before Mahtan had the chance to explore the gossip even further. Mahtan glanced encouragingly at him. “I wish to learn craftsmanship with you.”

The elder elf was taken aback, brows disappearing in his hair. He had heard of Fëanáro’s artisan talents, but it was clear he was expecting to hear something else – what it could be, Fëanáro had no idea. But there it was. The Prince held Mahtan’s gaze unblinkingly as if to show he really meant it.

“Well, of course, my Prince! It will be my honor to have you at my forge.” Fëanáro smiled his thanks at that, but before he could resume the conversation, Mahtan continued. “There is only one thing, though. I strongly encourage you to spend as much time as you can in my house. You will be treated there as you are here, having all the comforts the Crown Prince deserves.”

“I don’t object to that. I have strange habits during my creation process, and I figure it will be altogether better if I’m there when an idea comes. But you must not worry about treating me as a Prince. I am sure I will be comfortable enough with a simple room near the forge.”

Mahtan’s eyes again sparkled with something Fëanáro couldn’t pick up. Did the man doubt his creativity or his capability? He couldn’t tell, but the sensation didn’t diminish when Mahtan stammered in his answer.

“Y-yes… yes, that’s precisely my point.”

Fëanáro mentally shrugged. If Mahtan wanted to play games with him, he would let him. One day Fëanáro was going to discover what the old craftsman was up to. The idea of working with his hands, however, was appealing. When the conversation was over, Fëanáro ran to the library to tell his brother, who was as excited as he was.

“This is indeed good news, brother,” the youngster said, smiling. “You will be able to shine even brighter than the Trees.” _Just like your smile_. Fëanáro’s laughter rang off the silent library’s walls, and he pulled Nolofinwë to one of his tight one-armed hugs.

“We’ll see. The only problem is that I’ll be spending most of my time at Mahtan’s house.”

Nolofinwë stared at him, understanding the meaning of those words. He lowered his head and nodded, feeling his whole world was about to change forever. Even if Fëanáro didn’t show any interest for it, Nolofinwë knew he was approaching his marriage days, and one day Finwë was going to demand it of him. He felt a lump stuck in his throat, an unnamed feeling of anticipated loss. He tried to smile to his brother, though, not wanting him to think Nolofinwë was selfish, thinking only of his feelings. But Fëanáro seemed to know his brother’s heart.

“It’s going to be quite a change for the both of us,” he gave a little smile. “But I promise to visit you whenever I can, and you can come and visit me as well.”

“When will you go?”

“As soon as possible, since I finished my book and have literally nothing to do with my hands,” he laughed excitedly. Nolofinwë nodded and managed another sad smile, squeezing his brother’s waist as they walked back to the palace. He felt Fëanáro plant a kiss on the top of his head.

“Don’t be sad, háno. Tomorrow I’ll need you when I go to Rúmil’s house.”

Yes, Nolofinwë could be happy with the thought of enjoying his big brother’s company until the very last minute.

***

When they made it back, Nolofinwë said that, if they were going to Rúmil’s house in the morrow, he wanted to finish his assignment. Fëanáro protested a little, saying they should go to for a late night swim on the lake together, but understood the necessity his young brother had of being as diligent as he could in his studies. It was a pity because Fëanáro’s spirit was high, and he felt like his soul was singing after finishing the book. The intensity of it left him with the sensation of trying to contain a bonfire inside a matchbox.

He was returning to his chambers, the halls were quiet, and the mingling of the Trees left an imprint of silver-gold on the walls and floor. It was beautiful to see, and he followed the shadows and colors until his eyes were driven to something else.

From the corridor, the kitchen door was open and, when he looked inside, he saw two servant boys kissing. He vaguely remembered the faces of those he once saw as a kid inside the pantry, but he couldn’t say if these were the same servants or not. The kitchen was dimly lit, and the silhouettes of the servants were only distinguishable by the hazy glow of their white tunics.

Fëanáro, unable to take his eyes off the scene, watched as they gasped and sighed into one another’s mouths while exchanging passionate kisses, their hands roaming under their tunics, touching chests, arms, pulling their hair back so they could kiss one another’s necks. At the sounds and the sight of it, Fëanáro felt himself harden under his breeches. It was the second time he felt it happen – the first happened during a particularly intense study session.

His breast rose and fell with his quickened breathing, feeling the urge for something he hadn’t done the first time. Unthinkingly, he rubbed his hardness with the heel of his hand, eyes widening when one of the servants reached to the other’s shaft and brought it out to the crepuscular light. He saw one hand stroking it up and down and heard sensual moanings of pleasure. He felt his face burning with the heat.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious about standing there, watching – what if someone saw him? – he turned around and ran to his chambers, feeling dizzy, with a sudden need to do _that_. He had never touched himself that way and didn’t think twice before pulling his pants down; he stroke himself with the image of the servants kissing and caressing in his mind. It was very brief: he felt his brain freeze, saw a blinding white light behind his eyelids, and felt something entirely new and absolutely delicious.

Panting, he looked down and saw his hand coated with seed. He took it to his mouth and tasted the musky and salty cream. He felt his entire body trembling with the orgasm as if his brain had popped out of his skull. _This could be an intriguing experiment to run_ , he thought. Oddly enough, his mind drifted first to the image of his half-brother and then to Rúmil, not exactly sure why, but not giving it a second thought, either.

That night Fëanáro slept for nine hours straight, something he hadn’t done since he was a child.


	9. Something odd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fluffy chapter (edited by Encairion), because I just can't help it xD so bear with me a little, it'll not always be like this...

Fëanáro stormed into his chamber, looking neat and handsome, wearing a red tunic and his hair with triple braids. He held the book under his arm. “Are you ready?” he could sense the anxiety in his half-brother’s voice. Nolofinwë finished tying his shoes and nodded, grinning back to make Fëanáro feel more at ease.

His brother was walking quickly in front of him, the other hand touching his hair nervously as if to make sure he was looking all right. Nolofinwë didn’t know, of course, that Fëanáro wanted to look as grownup as he could, both in actions as in appearance. He smiled to himself at that idea, musing that his big brother was coming of age soon, but his spirit would be forever young, anxious, and insecure. He didn’t know how he knew it – he just did. He quickened his pace to match Fëanáro’s and took his free hand, squeezing it with that reassuring grip that made his brother flash a dazzling smile at him. It stole the breath from Nolofinwë’s lungs. When they walked in front of the kitchen, Fëanáro halted, an idea clearly lighting inside his mind.

“Wait here,” he said to Nolofinwë, handing the tome over.

The youngster didn’t argue. Fëanáro walked inside the kitchen and looked around as if he was searching for something. Then, he disappeared. While he waited, Nolofinwë turned the pages of the book and roamed his finger roaming gently over the words his brother had written, his beautiful and fluid hand letter, now done in a clean, permanent way, so that anyone could understand it, from the high-born to the last servant.

His attention snapped back when he heard a “psst” coming from the kitchen. He looked up, closing the book and holding it tenderly, to see Fëanáro waving his hand, asking him to go where he was. He had a devilish smile on his face that sent Nolofinwë’s heart racing. When he finally reached Fëanáro, he saw his brother holding the hatch that led downstairs to the cellar.

Nolofinwë tilted his head and frowned at him, making Fëanáro laugh softly.

“Don’t worry, I just thought of bringing Rúmil an appreciation gift.”

“I don’t know, brother… won’t Father miss if we steal one of his bottles?”

“Have you taken a look down there? There are hundreds of them! I’m sure Father won’t even notice,” he grinned again. Nolofinwë sighed. Sometimes he felt he was the older one and that Fëanáro was always, intentionally, getting into trouble. Curious enough, his half-brother read his face. “I know how you feel, Nolvo, but I confess I rely on you to always get us out of trouble.” His smile was so loving, so convincing it made Nolofinwë roll his eyes and laugh, conforming himself to the fact that he would never be able to deny his brother anything when he asked him _like that_.

“I swear to the Valar, brother, one of these days we are going to get caught in here.” He didn’t look at his brother to see him blush, thinking of how he had caught the two servants making out the evening before – and what that had led to. As he descended the steep stairs, Nolofinwë pondered that they stole things from the kitchen more often than it was necessary. The thrill of the mischief, though, was what they were really looking for.

When he reached the bottom, his brows shot up, and he whistled. His brother was right, the cellar was so big it spread under the kitchen and the garden, an underground refuge for booze. There were all kinds of wine produced in Valinor, red, rose and white, bottles of miruvor, mead, and other liquors he never heard of. It was a hot summer day, so Nolofinwë went to the cooler part of the cellar and brought up a bottle of rose wine. He was about to climb the stairs back when the hatch closed in his face.

He heard voices. Fëanáro was talking to someone who was trying to shoo him out of there. Probably Lottë, but if it was Laríel, they would definitely be in trouble. She could be harsher than his mother. Nolofinwë had to wait around ten minutes until the hatch opened again and Fëanáro urged him out.

“Come quickly!”

He flew up the stairs, and in a matter of minutes, they were running outside the palace’s gates.

“God’s be damned, Fëanáro!” Nolofinwë cried after his brother. “What happened?”

“Father,” he replied, looking over his shoulder and smiling, the excitement of the adventure glinting in his eyes.

“ _What_?” Nolofinwë ran to catch up to with Fëanáro’s long strides. “What did he say? Did he see me? What-”

“Calm down,” Fëanáro laughed, slinging his arm around Nolofinwë’s shoulders. “It’s all right, he didn’t see anything. He actually thought I was stealing more cake.”

“That was it?”

“That was it.” Another full grin. Fëanáro now inhaled deeply, stretching his arms and opening his lungs to the sweet scent of the fruit trees that skirted the path to their lambengolmor’s house.

When they got there, Rúmil was sitting on his porch reading with a quill in his hand, making notes on a separate piece of parchment.

“Boys! I didn’t expect you so soon,” the master said, smiling, looking from their faces to the tome Fëanáro held in his arms. “Are you telling me that this is…” he pointed with a finger to the volume. Fëanáro broadly smiled and handed his master the book. “Well… I must get to it right away.”

Then, the master looked at Nolofinwë, who shyly handed his own assignment and the bottle of wine, now sweating in the heat. He cocked his head, guessing that wine wasn’t a gift from Finwë.

“We wanted to indulge you a little, Rúmil,” Fëanáro said. The loremaster blushed, not knowing what to make of his young pupils.

“I suppose a little wine won’t do us any harm,” he smiled at Nolofinwë, who gave another shy smile. “Come on in.”

The boys felt relieved to be in the shade and coolness of the house. The library still smelled of cinnamon and clove, but the delicious scent of baked bread came from the kitchen. The Princes took their usual seats, and Rúmil called for a servant, who brought three goblets and a bucket filled with ice. “Let it cool for a while. In the meantime, I will read these,” he shook the assignment and the book he held in each hand.

Nolofinwë stood and grabbed a book from the shelf. It was a philosophy tome he had started the last time they’d been here. Fëanáro was too anxious to do anything, so he paced back and forth, watching his brother read with the usual frown between his brows, which made him look adorably grownup. He occasionally shot expectant glances at Rúmil, who was too intensely concentrated to notice anything else.

After what seemed an eternity – but what had been only a few hours – Rúmil put the book down and stared directly into Fëanáro’s eyes. It was like the lambengolmor was _seeing_ him for the first time. He wasn’t smiling, but his face shone with an unspoken admiration. He couldn’t guess what was going on inside Rúmil’s mind.

“This is impressive, Fëanáro,” he said in a quiet voice. “I never doubted you, and now you’ve proven to have grown intellectually far more than your age can tell. It doesn’t matter what others say. This,” he tapped the book cover firmly, “this will prove them wrong. I am… to say I am proud is an understatement.”

Fëanáro held his master’s gaze smiling but a little unnerved. Something in the lambengolmor’s tone and eyes gave him chills, and the hairs on his arms stood up. Rúmil was looking at him in a completely different way, and Fëanáro didn’t know what to think. He knew his master meant every word, but there was more to that than was being said.

Nolofinwë had stood up to stay beside his brother, entangling their arms. Listening to Rúmil praise Fëanáro like that made him swell with pride, as he often did. “I told you, háno,” he whispered, elbowing Fëanáro’s ribs. The Crown Prince laughed sweetly, finally breaking Rúmil’s gaze to kiss Nolofinwë’s head. Something else in the lambengolmor’s eyes caught his attention. Was it… jealousy? Maybe longing… He couldn’t say.

Fortunately, Rúmil seemed to realize, self-consciously, his strange attitude. He turned to Nolofinwë and said: “Now it’s your turn, young man. You are not going to escape my judgment today,” and smiled paternally again, making the brothers chuckle. Nolofinwë was very much aware his work couldn’t possibly be compared to his brothers’, but he was dumbstruck when Rúmil read his assignment with a grin and, in the end, burst into laughter.

“How did you manage to include politics into a botany essay is entirely unpredictable, and I am very much pleased with the result.”

Nolofinwë could feel Fëanáro’s soul shimmering beside him, the acute sense his brother was also proud of him. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and his touch burned where it laid. Fëanáro smiled ear-to-ear and said to Rúmil:

“My brother is no less of a genius.” Nolofinwë couldn’t react to that. He felt his knees falter under him and something fluttering inside his stomach. He knew he couldn’t do a tenth of what his brother could when he was his age, and Fëanáro thought he was a genius nonetheless? He wasn’t even listening when he heard both men laughing loudly around him.

He turned his attention back to Rúmil, who had stood up and was uncorking the wine. He filled the three goblets equally and raised his for a toast.

“Almiën!”  
  
The brothers picked up their goblets and repeated: “Almiën!” Nolofinwë knew Fëanáro had tasted wine before, but this was his first time. It was sweet and refreshing in his tongue, but the alcohol was also strong, and he coughed a little. Fëanáro laughed softly and clinked their glasses together, his eyes smiling playfully.

After his second goblet, Nolofinwë felt his head floating and heard himself talking about Fëanáro’s work – all of them, not just the recent book – to Rúmil, who listened patiently and laughed at the youngster’s enthusiasm. Fëanáro stared at his brother, clearly moved, a mix of love and thankfulness glittering in his eyes.

“All right, Nolvo, I think that’s enough wine for you,” he chuckled, taking his brother’s goblet.

When his eyes met Rúmil’s again, Fëanáro felt another shiver running down his spine. There was something in the lambengolmor’s features, the reflection of the same hunger he had tasted the previous night. Fëanáro wet his lips subconsciously, feeling his throat suddenly dry. He drained the rest of his wine and got up. “I think I should get him home.”

He clearly saw the disappointment in his loremaster, and that unsettled him even more. He didn’t know how to proceed with that new piece of information.

“Yes, of course, it’s about time you both head back,” Rúmil pulled himself together and managed a joyless smile.

The light of Laurelin was still shining through the window, but the lambengolmor also sensed the sexual tension he was exhaling was just too much for him to handle right now. He had wanted to kiss Fëanáro since the young elf walked onto his porch, and the fact that he smiled and looked the way he did wasn’t helping at all.

The Princes were soon waving their goodbyes, Nolofinwë slightly leaning on Fëanáro’s arm, who steadied his brother laughing. On their way, Fëanáro took a detour to one of the many roads that led to the palace; this one was quieter, encircled with big trees.

“Where are we going?” Nolofinwë asked, his voice sounding a little sloppy.

“Nowhere, just avoiding the public square. I think it’s safer if none of the noblemen sees you coming out of our loremaster’s house drunk,” he was serious, but also smiling.

“Oh… I’m not drunk!” he protested, letting out an involuntary hiccup and making Fëanáro give one of his wonderful belly laughs.

“Right, and I’m an eight-legged horse,” he teased, laughing. “Also, Father will actually murder me, not to say Rúmil, if he sees you stumbling like this.” The memory of Rúmil’s eyes made him feel odd again, and he quickly shoved the thought away. Now was not the time.

They entered the palace, and Fëanáro pulled Nolofinwë by his sleeve, saying: “Come on, I will take you to your chamber.”

“Are we climbing the window?” Nolofinwë laughed. “I… I don’t know if I can do it, brother,” he giggled.

“I’ll help. Come.”

Fëanáro climbed first, agile as a cat, and offered a hand to pull his half-brother up. Nolofinwë snorted with his failed attempts to firm his feet on the walls and laughed out loud.

“Shhh be quiet,” Fëanáro urged, gripping his wrist and pulling him up clumsily, both giggling, as they usually did, when living this kind of adventures.

They were in, and Nolofinwë climbed into the bed without taking his clothes off. Fëanáro shook his head, chuckling and took his brother’s shoes off, planting a kiss on his cheek and bidding him good night.

“Won’t you stay with me?” Nolofinwë asked with a sleepy voice.

“Not tonight. If you feel the need to vomit, don’t do it in your bed,” he smiled.

“Shut up, I won’t vomit,” Nolofinwë waved a hand at him, dismissing the idea.

“You never know until you do,” Fëanáro replied, still grinning. “Sleep well, little brother,” he said, knowing his brother was already out.

***

Nolofinwë opened his eyes and felt a hammering pain in his temple. He touched his head, remembering the goblets of wine, all the laughter with the alcohol in his veins, climbing up his window with Fëanáro. He felt a pang of distress to realize his brother was not in bed with him, and then he remembered his words about throwing up. Well, he hadn’t, and now his recommendation sounded absurd. Why would he feel sick with two single goblets of wine, when he knew adults drank a lot more than that? He snorted into his pillow, feeling somewhat victorious.

When he decided to get up, however, his head spun and his stomach lurched dangerously. He ran to the bathroom and vomited, mentally cursing his half-brother for the premonition. He wondered if Fëanáro had ever been drunk enough to throw up when he heard a soft laugh behind him.

“Well, that’s a good morning to you, too!”

“ _Gods_ ,” he said weakly, letting go of the vase and slipping to the floor, his body limp. Fëanáro laughed louder, crouching in front of him.

“Do you feel like being sick again?”

Nolofinwë shook his head, already sensing his stomach was less wild. Fëanáro grabbed him by his armpits and helped him up, unbraiding his hair and taking off his clothes.

“Go on, you need a cool bath to help your stomach stay where it is.”

Fëanáro washed his hair silently, but Nolofinwë could tell his brother had a smile on his face.

“Have you ever…?” he couldn’t finish. He was feeling terribly ashamed that Fëanáro found him thus, sensing he had made a fool out of himself.

“What? Threw up? Of course I have,” Fëanáro chuckled. “Did you think I had a premonition of some sort?” When Nolofinwë didn’t answer, he snickered and helped him out, handing him a clean towel and recounting while he dressed. “The last time was on your mother’s Begetting Day. She was furious with me, obviously, but I couldn’t stand the dullness of it all, all the falseness. So I had an entire bottle of sparkling wine and… well…” he giggled, “I promise, it wasn’t pretty.”

“How come you never told me about this?” he asked, mildly offended.

“You didn’t need the details, brother. Also, I couldn’t believe I didn’t wake you with all the noise I made in my bathroom!”

“That was the day you slept in until after lunch?”

Fëanáro nodded, smiling. “And after I woke up, I threw up again,” he gave a full-body laugh. “But, as the adults say, you don’t have enough stories if you didn’t have a few bottles.”

Nolofinwë snorted. Elves never forgot a thing, and their memories were vivid as if they were alive. The idea that they needed alcohol to remember things was incredibly ironic.

“You’re a month away from it, háno,” Nolofinwë said, not concealing the sad tone of his voice. Fëanáro also sighed, looking at his young brother who seemed to have grown a few inches overnight, wet hair spilling to his waist, and blue-diamond eyes shining with Laurelin’s golden beams. He offered Nolofinwë a quick, cornered-mouth smile.

“Let’s not talk about it right now, all right? Today we are going to enjoy ourselves.”

Something in Fëanáro’s mischievous face made Nolofinwë laugh. They passed by the kitchen to get food and drinks that were already laid out. Fëanáro led him to the yards, where two small horses were saddled and waiting for them. Nolofinwë’s eyes twinkled.

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere you want, but I thought about riding to Oromë’s woods to hunt for waterfalls.”

“I like that idea,” the youngster said, jumping on his saddle lightly.

The brothers had a blast. The hunt for waterfalls was successful, and they ran into four different cascades, stopping to dive in, splashing water on each other, throwing themselves off the cliffs, and, eventually, eating the food they’d brought – dried meat with fruits and lemonade. Fëanáro thought they might run into the Vala of the Woods, having the feeling he was around, but he couldn’t tell if it was his spirit that guarded his forest and was ever watchful, or if it was the sense of being spied.

When the latter thought became unbearable, he laughed at his own paranoia but felt it was time to go home. He and Nolofinwë headed back to the horses and, ultimately, back to the palace. When they dismounted, the youngster flung his arms around Fëanáro’s waist and gave him a quick, tight hug.

“Thank you, polda háno. I had the best of times today.”

“So did I, brother.”

Fëanáro smiled and gave a gentle stroke in his half-brother’s back, and then Nolofinwë let him go, running back inside. Fëanáro didn’t have to say anything. He knew his brother was letting the tears he had been holding back all day flow freely.


	10. Fëanáro's Coming of Age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing: Encairion

Even Nolofinwë could tell how much he’d grown. His head didn’t fit in the mirror from the place he usually stood, so he took a few steps back to see the whole of his slender figure. He was taller – not as tall as Fëanáro, but definitely taller. His tunics were constantly on the mend, considering he seemed to outgrow them by the day. It _was_ incredible, he thought, how one could sprint up so much in so short a time.

But now, as he looked at his reflection, he was much more self-aware than before. If he was growing taller or wiser, he couldn’t say. Everyone said he was unusually mature for his age, although he didn’t feel that way. As he finished lacing his blue tunic that matched the exact color of his eyes, he certainly didn’t feel any different than a couple of years ago. Nevertheless, things had undoubtedly changed.

His half-brother’s absence had forced him into maturity, even if it was only to not go looking for trouble by himself – he often did it when Fëanáro was back from the forges to spend a few days with the family. With him. His brother would lead him, then, to all sorts of mischief, from stealing liquor from the cellar to going hunting deep into Yavanna’s pastures. Oh, they knew they were offending two gods at once, but the excitement of doing _wrong_ things like typical youths was much greater than any punishment. Nolofinwë smiled to himself: it was true enough that he had to get them out of trouble Every.Single.Time.

Since Fëanáro was gone, though, for what felt like ages, he felt a melancholy he didn’t yet have the maturity to name. He missed his brother terribly. More than the adventures they had and the infinite rounds of laughs they provided, he missed the little things: waking up in his brother’s bed, sharing daily meals, bathing together, and watching Fëanáro just… being himself.

Nolofinwë idolized him, that much he admitted. Perhaps more than it was natural for two half-brothers, but he couldn’t help it. As soon as Fëanáro started talking feverishly about his new projects, moving his hands, drawing things in the air with his fingers – and invariably scribbling down what he meant on a piece of parchment so his little brother could _see_ –, his eyes would shine like two diamond lamps, barely holding the flame behind them… Nolofinwë would drink his words straight from his lips if he could.

And his body did funny things, too. He often felt as if his chest wasn’t big enough to hold the size of his heart when he was close to Fëanáro. No, not often. He _always_ felt that way. Being around him was addictive, especially if his brother found such an attentive and eager audience like Nolofinwë. Again, he couldn’t help himself.

He smiled sadly at those memories, trying not to pay too much attention to his own features in the mirror while he carefully braided his thick, black hair. _By the_ _Valar_ , he missed him! And now Fëanáro was finally reaching majority, the one thing Nolofinwë dreaded since he was a little boy. He simply knew Fëanáro was going to be taken away from him, sooner or later, and the gossip from Tirion was relentless: he lived under Mahtan’s roof, it was only natural he would take his daughter as a wife.

Nolofinwë didn’t know exactly what to think of Nerdanel. He’d met her once when he went to visit Fëanáro at the forges. She and his brother were talking animatedly, discussing the matters of crystals, and he was explaining new techniques of working with glass. They were engaged in conversation and stopped speaking as soon as he entered. She was kind enough, but they didn’t exchange more than two words before she resumed her tasks, and Fëanáro never talked about her with him. It was the only and first time he’d been there, feeling like he was intruding in a world he didn’t belong - even though his brother never implied such a thing.

He finished braiding his hair and put on the jewel ornaments Fëanáro had made him. Tiny blue diamonds woven into entangled circlets that cascaded through his hair, blending with the braids as if he’d been born like that. The youth sighed. When he looked at himself again, he didn’t even feel sad for not having his brother’s smoldering looks. Though people usually said he was a handsome young man, Fëanáro was incomparable. His half-brother was stunning, and even more so now, his body was enhanced with the muscles he gained through craftsmanship.

Nolofinwë swallowed hard at those thoughts. He never aspired to look like Fëanáro, he just wanted to _watch_ him, for eternity. To be able to allow his eyes to eat his brother up, all the little details that made him so perfect. Nolofinwë knew well his brother’s faults, but even those seemed perfect to his adoring eyes.

A soft knock came from the door.

“Son, are you ready? We are going to run late!”

“Yes, Father, just one more moment.” He went to a drawer in his desk and pulled out a carefully placed sheet of parchment folded in four. He had worked hard on that, and now it was finally the day he was going to show it to his brother. He sighed again, but this time anxiety climbed into his stomach. Nolofinwë put the sheet inside a pocket and opened his chamber’s door. Both his parents were waiting for him in the corridor.

“What took you so long, child?” his mother chided, looking nervously towards the garden. When she beheld him, though, she smiled boastfully. “Oh, how handsome you look!” and kissed his cheek. He smiled back at her, feeling more nervous than before.

They went to the gardens where the party was being held. Fëanáro was already there. He wore a red vest with a white tunic underneath, both woven with gold. The back of his vest had beautiful gold embroidery. A golden circlet, set with an enormous ruby, adorned his beautiful face. That was a new piece, undoubtedly made by himself as proof of how advanced his studies were developing.

His presence was as if a star had fallen from the sky, straight into their midst, still kindled, emanating such heat it burned to look. The Trees shone bright, but Fëanáro obliterated anything, anyone else. He _was_ the light made flesh.

He was talking with Rúmil and some other loremasters, waving his hands, as usual. Nolofinwë laughed quietly to himself at that sight. Except for Rúmil – who was snickering, one hand covering his mouth, failing miserably to conceal his shoulders shaking with laughter – the other academics looked rather indignant with whatever he was saying. Typical.

Finwë called out his name, and when Fëanáro turned, he saw them and smiled broadly, meeting his brother’s gaze. His eyes blazed silver-diamond. Nolofinwë smiled back, his knees turning to jelly. Fëanáro bounded over to greet them, receiving a hug and a kiss from Finwë, coming to stand in front of Nolofinwë.

“In a few years you will be as tall as I am, little brother,” he said, smiling fondly, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“Hopefully not as daft as you, háno,” he couldn’t help teasing, making Fëanáro burst into a peal of loud laughter, the ones he adored.

“Things are right with you, I hope? The masters were praising you. They told me you’ve buried yourself in your studies lately.”

“If I ever want to be credibly called your brother, I better!” he replied, smiling, but Fëanáro frowned and was silent for a few moments.

“Is Father giving you a hard time?” he asked in a low tone so no one around would hear.

“Ah… you know Father. When someone is not _you_ , it’s difficult to please him.”

Nolofinwë couldn’t hide from his big brother what he truly felt. He knew his father loved them both, but who was he trying to fool? Fëanáro was the apple of Finwë’s eyes. He didn’t resent his brother’s geniality, however, as he couldn’t exactly blame his father, either.

“Brother…” Fëanáro’s tightened the grip on his shoulder and pulled him for a hug. Nolofinwë wasn’t going to cry and spoil his brother’s birthday, so he pushed himself quickly, and taking the sheet of paper out of his pocket, handed to his big brother, who smiled inquisitively at him.

“I… I did it for you.”

Fëanáro opened and saw a beautifully drawn symbol of an eight-pointed flaming star. His jaw dropped.

“I didn’t know if you were going to even like it, so I... I didn’t try to make any permanent jewelry, considering you can do it infinitely better than me, and I didn’t know-” he was interrupted by his brother’s arms around his neck, pulling him in for an even tighter embrace.

“It’s perfect!” Fëanáro’s voice shook. Nolofinwë was bowled over with that reaction.

His brother’s arms withdrew. “Thank you, pitya háno. I shall wear this with pride.” Tears were glistening in his eyes, and he saw Fëanáro struggling to keep them back.

They smiled at one another. Fëanáro slung one arm over his shoulder, dragging him to where one of the servants held a tray with wine and empty goblets. They poured one each and toasted.

“ _Alassëa nosta_ , brother,” Nolofinwë said, still smiling.

Suddenly they were surrounded by Mahtan and Nerdanel, Yanattë, and other lords, even Ingwë was there, all crying _alassëa nosta!_ to Fëanáro, who grinned at them as if he owned their souls, draining his goblet more than once.

The rest of the party was spent between groups. Some of the lords had brought their sons and daughters closer of age to Nolofinwë, and he enjoyed their cheerful company, even if they weren’t as bright as his brother. Fëanáro didn’t blend in as he was supposed to, focusing on the company of the same few he always did. Rúmil was there, and the loremasters that could put up with his presumptuousness. Mahtan also, and his daughter, who now seemed to cling to him like a tree looking for the sun. Nolofinwë caught glimpses of his father’s annoyed stare at his eldest, as he was meant to do a _little_ political socializing. But Fëanáro avoided the noblemen as a cat avoids water.

Nolofinwë thought he could relieve Fëanáro of the burden he so much hated. For this reason, he excused himself to the other youths and volunteered to listen to whatever the noblemen wanted to say. He nodded politely, smiling occasionally, and once caught Fëanáro staring at him with what appeared to be admiration in his eyes. Nolofinwë blushed at the thought his big brother would admire him for anything, and played his part well. In the end, Finwë also seemed pleased with his youngest’s conduct.

“I was very pleased to see you today, my son,” he said, setting a hand on his shoulder while they walked back into the palace. “It seems the political career runs stronger in your veins.”

His tone couldn’t hold back some of the disappointment that Fëanáro wasn’t the one being praised for it, but Nolofinwë ignored it and smiled at his father. If this was what it took to make him proud than he would gladly partake in it.

“I wonder if one day we will manage to put the crown in your head instead…”

Nolofinwë stopped in his tracks. His face was white with shock. He loved his brother more than anything in the world, and couldn’t conceive of Fëanáro giving up his birthright to anyone, even one he loved. To even think about it was like stabbing his half-brother in the back.

“Father, please, do not say these things. I don’t want to be the Crown Prince. Fëanáro was born to rule as much as you were, and I know he will be the greatest king the world has ever seen.” His voice was stern, and his eyes held a cold, blue glint.

“I am sorry, Nolvo, I didn’t know this would upset you so much. I only said it because you already thrive in the position, and your brother shows no interest whatsoever…” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Nolofinwë understood that their father was under a lot of pressure having the Crown Prince detached from the Noldorin realm, still unmarried and always being so polemical among the lords. That didn’t excuse the treacherous thought he had just uttered, and Nolofinwë felt troubled.

“Don’t worry about him, Father,” he replied, knowing that it was impossible for Finwë not to. His father sighed and nodded, showing that he wanted to stop worrying himself, but simply couldn’t. “I know for certain Fëanáro will be successful in whatever path he chooses.”

“Oh, I know that as much as you, my boy. But your brother needs to grasp the responsibility of being Crown Prince, whether he likes it or not.”

Nolofinwë couldn’t argue with that. It was their duty, even if one so hateful. He heard voices and looked over his shoulder, only to see Fëanáro and Nerdanel laughing at something his brother held in his hand. The girl’s demeanor told him everything he needed to know, even if he didn’t see it mirrored in his brother’s eyes.

***

Fëanáro went to the library that evening, for old time’s sake. He wanted to look at some books about botany and chemistry. He was almost sure that, with his new experiments with glass, he was going to be able to, somehow, someday, capture light without any other source of powering device. He had read, from the journals of the Great Journey, about plants with bioluminescent proprieties that glowed in the dark. If he could discover any formula that could hold their essence inside a vessel… but that was a very primitive idea. He didn’t even know if these plants grew in Valinor and, if they did, how he was going to do it – yet.

He took all the books he had already read about the Great Journey and started re-reading them. His eyes knew what he was looking for, but still, he needed to read carefully, searching for things he might have overlooked the first couple of times. He had already finished five volumes, getting tired and impatient from the lack of answers. He reached the part that spoke of the ethics of being a loremaster, something he wasn’t familiar with. Fëanáro found it intriguing that such things were discussed. He read the paragraph:

 _The loremasters must be aware of their influence over youths, for good or ill. A master might even have a more considerable impact than parents in their pupils_ ’ _development, considering the significant amount of time spent among them. In many cases, the loremasters will introduce their students to all subjects of life._

But then he stumbled upon a curious side note he hadn’t paid attention to before, written in charcoal in a small but elegant letter. It read: _Introduction to sexual life_.

Fëanáro’s brows shot up, astounded. There were many things he didn’t know about the Eldar in their first decades after the Awakening, but this was something nobody had _ever_ mentioned. Sex wasn’t a topic in casual conversations – it was a taboo – and marriages were viewed as a political issue, handled by the parents, and rarely contracted because a couple loved each other. Inter-racial marriages between Vanyar, Noldor, and Teleri were rare and ill-spoken of behind closed doors, and same-gender marriages weren’t even a thing.

Fëanáro couldn’t say he had ever seen an openly same-gender couple. There were none. The information made him realize how daring those servants who dodged around the High King, the Laws, and the Valar themselves really were. They were magnificent! He felt a rush of admiration for those men, people whose faces he didn’t even remember. He was too young when he saw the first two servants in the pantry – in what he knew, now, was a romantic encounter.

He felt his heart beating faster, and it wasn’t over the memory of his voyeurism. This discovery was _new_ ! It was something he had never read about, never heard of, and that _nobody_ spoke of! This… this was _big_! He didn’t even know what he was going to do with the information, but it told him more than he could process. He closed the book, memorizing the volume and the page, and returned pensively to his chambers. This was something he was definitely going to go back to, he just didn’t know how – yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alassëa nosta (Q) - happy birthday
> 
> The idea of the bioluminscent flowers came from the fun piece [Fire in a Flask](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832067), by amyfortuna


	11. Unspoken things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, Encairion has improved this chapter significantly <3

Nolofinwë was half walking, half running down the corridor. He was smiling, holding a sheet of parchment – the reason why he’d been in the library all day. Since his brother was staying in the palace for a week, Nolofinwë resumed helping him with whatever projects he had in mind. Fëanáro had a lot of ideas, but one was more urgent, and he spoke to Nolofinwë about a mathematical formula that would help him create a new crystal device – what for, he didn’t say. Nolofinwë took the liberty of going to the library alone to try and discover something that would be useful.

“Fëanáro! I’ve found it! I’ve found-” He stormed inside his brother’s chambers as he always did, weaving the paper.

“Don’t you knock?” Fëanáro growled, yanking his breeches up with a flush in his cheeks.

“What’s the problem? It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he argued, not knowing why his brother reacted like that.

Fëanáro finished lacing his pants and pulled his shoes on. When he glanced at the paper his brother held, he said, the corner of his mouth quirked up in an amused smile: “Are you going to tell me or will I have to take it from you?”

“First, tell me I’m the second most intelligent elf in Valinor.”

“Well, the first you certainly aren’t,” Fëanáro teased and laughed when Nolofinwë rolled his eyes.

“Come on, you can say it! ‘Nolvo, you are brilliant, I couldn’t live without you, little brother,’” he mimicked Fëanáro’s lower tone of voice.

But, in his pride, wishing to hear his brother’s praise, he got distracted. Fëanáro sprang up and, swift as the wind, snatched the parchment from Nolofinwë’s hand, holding it above his head. His younger brother jumped to try and get it back, frustrated with his sloppiness. Fëanáro was one head taller than Nolofinwë, and could easily hold his brother down.

“Mmm… this could be useful. I would have to change a thing or two, of course.”

“ _Of course_!” Nolofinwë snorted, jumping to reach the paper once more. When he failed, he hopped onto Fëanáro’s back, wrapping his legs around his waist and his arms around his brother’s neck. Fëanáro tried to stand his ground but slipped on the rug; the weight of his little brother brought him down.

They both fell on the bed giggling. The air whooshed out of Nolofinwë's lungs when his brother collapsed on top of him, still entangled. The proximity of his brother’s body against his chest, and his pressing weight, did funny things to Nolofinwë’s heart, and his cheeks heated up. But Fëanáro didn’t leave him much to think: he held on to his brother’s legs and stood up with a single movement, even though Nolofinwë was still wrestling to keep him down.

When Fëanáro leaped up, he heard an ugly bump that froze his heart.

“That’s not fair! You’re much stronger than I am!” Nolofinwë complained, laughing and breathing on the back of his neck.

Nolofinwë buried his nose in his brother’s thick hair, inhaling eucalyptus and iron, and the lingering, metallic scent of the forges. He could live for that smell, but Fëanáro didn’t let him. His big brother turned around, with a concerned look in his eyes.

“Gods, háno, I’m sorry,” he said, cupping Nolofinwë’s head in his hands.

Nolofinwë blinked and felt a thick, warm trail of liquid drip into his lashes. He touched his brow and saw the blood in his fingers.

“Does it hurt?” Fëanáro asked.

“Not really,” he replied truthfully.

“Come, let me clean that.” Fëanáro dragged him to the bathroom and made him sit on a stool. He fetched a clean cloth and crouched in front of him. He took Nolofinwë’s chin delicately in his hand, tilting his head to one side and the other, focusing on the wound. Nolofinwë flinched at the touch of the cloth but remained silent.

Fëanáro was so close he could smell his sweet breath, and remnants of wine spiced with cinnamon and honey. Nolofinwë’s gaze traveled over his brother’s beloved features: the frown of intense concentration, the smoothness of his skin, and the curve of his full lips. He had never paid that much attention to his brother’s lips before and felt the sudden urge to kiss him. But that was because he loved him so much, right? He had never kissed anyone before, after all… how could he know?

Then he thought about other people’s lips as if looking for the same response. He thought about his father’s lips – but all he could remember was Finwë’s set mouth when he was angry. He thought of his mother’s lips, and even though they were rosy, he didn’t want to kiss them – in truth, he cringed at the mental image. He thought of Rúmil’s mouth, but they didn’t give him the same response either. His gaze traveled to his brother’s neck and throat, pulsing slightly with his heartbeat. His skin seemed to radiate white heat, and, from the open tunic on his chest, Nolofinwë could see the curves of his bones. The scent of herbs, as Fëanáro applied medicine on the wound, was not strong enough to eclipse the heady perfume of his brother’s skin.

His heart thrummed against his chest with something he had always known to be there but never spoke aloud – not even to himself. _I want to kiss him_. Flashes of how his brother’s lips would feel against his flooded his mind. The wish to run his fingers through his hair and kiss every inch of his brother’s body sent a shiver down his spine. The thoughts didn’t frighten him as he knew they should. It was a new thing for him, but it felt so right that, in his heart, he couldn’t deny it – as much as he couldn’t deny anything Fëanáro asked him. Especially when he smiled. Too soon was Fëanáro done, standing up and washing his hand off the balm he’d used to heal the wound.

Fëanáro turned to look upon his brother and was drawn into the gaze of his huge blue-diamond eyes. But there was something different this time, something he had never seen before. There was the same worshiping he always saw – and loved seeing – but there was more. Nolofinwë’s lips were parted, his gaze so bright and intense Fëanáro’s heart raced like it had a life of its own. Nolofinwë’s eyes were so big they could have swallowed him into that fresh pool of water, deep and shiny as the night sky.

They stood there, staring at each other, eyes locked until a knock on the door startled them both – Nolofinwë jumped in his seat. Fëanáro felt like he was caught doing something very wrong, and yet, they had done nothing at all! _Right_? he thought, still watching his brother with the corner of his eye. But, by then, the spell seemed broken, and his brother looked “normal” again.

“Prince Fëanáro, is Prince Nolofinwë in there?” Laríel called.

“Yes, Laríel, come in,” his brother answered cheerfully as if nothing had happened. _But_ nothing _happened_!

(Then why did his body burn and his heart race?) No, it was nothing more than a figment of his imagination. (But his pounding heart ripped through the lie). Another look at his brother, though, eased his heart: Nolofinwë didn’t seem troubled, so he put this thought, and the guilt that came with it, aside.

The maid entered. “I am sorry to disturb you, my Princes, but the Queen is requesting your presence,” she said apologetically, looking at Nolofinwë. Then, noticing the wound, she approached him. “What happened here?” and did the same as Fëanáro, if a little rougher, taking his chin and tilting his head one side to the other to look at the damage.

“A little accident,” Nolofinwë said, smiling at her, that same mischievous smile he wore when they embarked on adventures.

“My little brother thought he could outmatch me,” Fëanáro answered, also smiling, and throwing the bloodied cloth aside. Nolofinwë poked out his tongue and laughed softly, now the tension between them had vanished.

“Both of you must stop acting like children, eventually,” she chided. “You’ll need to see a healer to close that wound.”

“It wasn’t deep, and I cleaned it well. I don’t think he will need a healer, after all,” Fëanáro said, propping one leg on the stool and leaning on it with an elbow. Nolofinwë’s gaze ran shyly down the long leg, unable to restrain himself. _So beautiful!_ Thankfully, Fëanáro didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, you know what your mother is going to say to that,” Laríel said with a smug smile.

Nolofinwë rolled his eyes and sighed, knowing _exactly_ what to expect. Indis still treated him like a baby, even though he would be of age in a matter of decades. His brother chuckled.

“You’ll not face her alone,” he put a hand on his shoulder, smiling. “Let’s go see her before she sends an escort to fetch you.”

Nolofinwë laughed and thanked his brother. He slung an arm around Fëanáro’s waist, with the feeling that, by his side, he could face the darkness of the Encircling Seas itself.


	12. The gathering of hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Encairion, a thousand times for pointing out my mistakes and helping me be a (somewhat) better writer <3

Fëanáro lay on his bed, eyes open in the dark, thinking about the same thing he had for the last few months. He played the images in his mind over and over again: the intensity of his brother's blue-diamond eyes, his parted lips, his slender figure emanating heat like a furnace in the room. _What were you trying to tell me, Nolvo?_ He kept asking himself, heart pounding loudly in his ears in the dead of night.

Although he had tried, he couldn’t shake off the energy of that ecstatic moment of electricity. He had decided, after that day, to give his brother some space, terrified that Nolofinfwë could have sensed… what was it, exactly, to be sensed? Fëanáro shivered. He didn’t know what in the bloody hells it could be. Whatever it was, however, felt stronger than the waves of the ocean, more profound than the space between the stars.

Spending more time in Mahtan’s house kept his mind distracted during the day, but those moments in the dark kept him awake longer than he had anticipated. As the days went on, Fëanáro would wake up with the first beams of Laurelin and start working. His new discoveries on the manufacturing of glass were coming out quite well, and his latest experiments had been an absolute success. He was pleased, but there was still much to do and to discover, especially if he ever aspired to tame light inside his new vessels.

Day after day, he spent laboring on the forges, and day after day, people came from all over Tirion to watch him. He didn’t even acknowledge them unless they asked for help - which they always did. Then, he gladly instructed them. He seemed to be, now, more master than Mahtan himself, and people already whispered of following Fëanáro’s instructions rather than the elder’s.

Fëanáro was oblivious to the implicit political game, unaware of how his actions could have consequences for his host. He liked teaching, and even more so when he had skillful learners. Nerdanel was a very talented sculptor, but when it came to the forges, she was merely an apprentice as anyone else and seemed as eager as any of them to learn from him. Fëanáro smiled, proud of his own accomplishments, and overlooked Mahtan’s envious eyes.

His daughter seemed as oblivious as he was, and Fëanáro didn’t mind Nerdanel’s company. In fact, he quite enjoyed it. They spent many hours talking about their craft, discussing materials and techniques. He had never had any friends besides Nolofinwë and liked to think of her as one - even if he never expected to find friendship in a woman. Nevertheless, he could share with her ideas for projects and love for the craft. But she wasn’t his brother. She didn’t have the same interest, the same deference Nolofinwë showed when Fëanáro shared his passions, his visions. Her eyes didn’t shine like his, and she certainly didn’t have his patience to hear all the explanations of whatever the subject was. Even so, he and Nerdanel could appreciate each other’s company after a day’s work, talking with a chilled ale in their hands.

But during the day, when Fëanáro wasn’t too concentrated on his work, he could manage a few words for those who sought his knowledge.

“You keep the pressure of the heat on this side of the glass, molding it with your hands,” he explained to the gathered crowd. They all held awed expressions as they saw how Fëanáro bent the material to his will almost without effort.

“Incredible!”

“I have never seen anything like it!”

“Prince Fëanáro, you are the most talented elf in Valinor!”

“Aye, it’s true!”

These were the things he heard daily from the workers of Mahtan’s smithy. He smiled to himself, proud to see his work appreciated, more than flattered by the praise. Fëanáro wanted his pieces to shine. And shine they did. When the laboring day was over, and everyone shared ales in simple copper mugs, one of the older smiths who worked for Mahtan the longest, approached him. 

“Prince Fëanáro, sir.”

“Waimano, in what may I assist you?” he asked organizing his tools.

“Oh, nothing for today, my lord,” the elder smiled shyly. He was a simple man who lived in the poorer side of Tirion, the part that grew under the shadow of the mountains of the Pass. “Just a piece of advice, if your lordship will take it from these old bones.”

Fëanáro put a hand on the elf’s shoulder, making him sit. He sat beside him and encouraged him with a look. 

“I have seen your work many times now, my lord, and I say: it is unprecedented!”

Fëanáro chuckled. “It is true what my sire says, my lord, incomparable!” A younger voice came from behind him. He turned and saw a small young man, spinning the heavy gloves they used in the forges between anxious fingers.

“You must be Waimano’s son, am I right?”

“Aye, my lord. Lindwë, my lord.” The youth bowed his head respectfully.

“You are the spitting image of your father. Join us, Lindwë,” Fëanáro smiled tilted his head at an empty chair. The young elf was delighted, and couldn’t take his eyes off the beautiful prince. He pulled the chair closer to his father’s, slightly touching his knee, looking for the confident touch of the elder. Fëanáro grinned, making the boy blush.

The man continued: “As I was saying, my lord, you should seek Aulë’s forges. There is Power in your hands.”

“I will, eventually. But I like working here, alongside all of you,” Fëanáro gave an honest smile, the flashing ones he didn’t know could dazzle crowds. Fëanáro saw the two exchange a wordless look and knew there was more to it than mere flattering. “Go on, speak freely.”

“It is… I just…” the elder looked around, making sure they wouldn’t be overheard. He lowered his voice. “I wish you took Lindwë into your care, my lord. To teach him what you know.”

The smile vanished from Fëanáro’s face, and he exhaled sharply. He didn’t care about politics, but even so, he was thousands of miles from being an idiot. He knew this would offend Mahtan, as gravely as if he disgraced his daughter if it ever reached his ears. His sight seemed lost in thought for a while, making father and son exchange another, more concerned, gaze.

“I cannot do this here,” Fëanáro said quietly, but not without tenderness in his voice. “Not because I don’t want to,” he turned to look Lindwë in the eyes, seeing the young freeze under the intensity of his gaze. “But because my host would be kind if he only kicked me out of here with a broomstick shoved up my ass.” 

Waimando chuckled, knowing the truth in his words. Lindwë seemed disappointed and lowered his head, scuffing his torn boots against the floor. The father, noticing, gripped his shoulder. 

“One day, my son.”

“Yes, one day, and sooner rather than later,” Fëanáro gripped the youngster’s other shoulder. The promise made the boy look up, hopeful again, cheeks flustered with the touch. “One day, I will have a house and a forge of my own. If your heart still desires, then, Lindwë, you will be welcomed by my side.”

Lindwë’s expression broke into a smile of adoration, one Fëanáro knew only too well – but none, none was like the one he missed most. He swallowed a lump in his throat. He managed a smile for the boy, and clinked their mugs together in the promise of a future beside the most talented elf Arda had ever seen. 

***

By the next day, the whole forge was buzzing with the spreading news: when the time came, Fëanáro would take those who were willing under his wing. Almost all workers came to pledge themselves under his teachings if one day he’d take them. He didn’t feel troubled, for every smile was a heart earned. That was a value he couldn’t put into words. These men trusted him, and it made him feel loved among his own people.

That night, however, Fëanáro couldn’t sleep at all. Among all the smiles, he couldn’t stop thinking about his brother. Nolofinwë’s sweet face was there every time he closed his eyes, and the ache for his brother only increased. After nearly five months, it was time to go home again. Telperion’s light was high and bright in the sky when he turned on the machinery and started working. He didn’t think about the noise the drill would make, but it was likely because of it Nerdanel got up. He heard her approaching by the soft sound of her silk gown.

“Better watch what you’re doing, or you’re going to lose a finger,” Nerdanel’s voice came from the door.

Fëanáro didn’t answer immediately. He was finishing a millimetric cut on a stone, the drill inches from his forefinger. He didn’t stop the machine, but the shadow of a smile played on his mouth.

“You know that is impossible.”

“What? You listening to me or losing a finger?” He heard the broad smile in her voice.

Fëanáro snorted, turning the equipment off and inspected the stone. Nerdanel approached and looked mesmerized.

“That is beautiful!” She said, eyes shining. The blue gem glistened between his fingers, droplets of water playing inside it. Nerdanel approached and touched the gem. She slid her finger, brushing Fëanáro’s hand like the tickle of a feather. “Is it for someone?” She asked, eyes tracing the features of his face, not being able to hide the jealousy in her voice.

But Fëanáro didn’t seem to notice. His smile vanished, and a frown appeared in his brow, eyes fogged with memory of the only face he saw behind his eyelids. When he started cutting the stone, he hadn’t thought of presenting it to Nolofinwë, but he had tried to capture the deep blue of his eyes. Now it seemed clear this ought to be a gift. He took off the protection mask and set the gem down on a cloth, wrapping it to be taken care of later. 

“So… is it?” Her voice called him back to reality.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked, narrowing his eyes, amused with her interest.

“I want to know if it is for a girl. Is it?” she said plainly, crossing the few steps that separated them.

“No, it isn’t for any girl,” Fëanáro chuckled. Why couldn’t he say this was a gift for his brother? There was nothing wrong with saying it, this would not be the first gift he made for Nolofinwë. And yet, somehow, the way he was thinking of his brother’s eyes was like he’d seen him that day in his bathroom, bright and intense as if he could plunge into that pool and immerse himself forever in them.

He suddenly felt the touch of a trembling hand on his thigh. His head snapped up, reminded of her presence. He was not in the mood to talk, but this was clearly something else.

“Good,” she purred, finally locking gazes with him. He must have looked confused, because she continued, coming even closer until he could feel her hot breath on his mouth. “I want to be the only girl in your life.”

And, without warning, she pressed her lips against his. He didn’t know what he was doing, but it appeared neither did she. Nerdanel shyly pushed her tongue inside his mouth, searching for his, and it felt… wet. Weird, interesting. Hot. But mostly weird. It felt nothing like the intensity he had expected. He remembered those two servants long ago, how they drank from each other’s mouths, moaning into one another’s necks, both getting hard under their breeches, touching…

Nothing like _that_ happened. Nerdanel timidly touched his neck with trembling fingers, pressing her body against his, and slipped her thigh against his groin. Fëanáro only felt curiosity for his first kiss. It was all very swift, and when they pulled apart, she smiled at him with a victorious look on her face, totally unaware of his lack of response. She took his hand and put it in her waist, teaching him how to behave. She pressed her body against his again and leaned for another kiss. He let her do it. It was not unpleasant, and he certainly could improve his rough technique. Their teeth clacked clumsily, and he was certain this wasn’t exactly how it was done. 

Fëanáro’s mind was pulled back from this new experiment with a jolt. Not knowing why his mind had traveled to his brother’s face, the look in those deep diamond-blue eyes, his parted lips, and the thought that he was kissing _him_ was alarming. He felt his shaft stir inside his pants, and he panted in Nerdanel’s mouth. Her cheeks were flushed, and she smiled at him, biting her lip.

“Well, I think that you can take me now if you want to.”

His eyes widened. He didn’t know how to take a girl – hells, he didn’t know how to take anyone! But this was… this was a little bit too much for him in just one day. What if he started thinking of his brother while taking her? No, no, that would be… gods that would be wrong… so _wrong_. Right? But then… he was just thinking of the gem he’d made for Nolvo, not in his brother physically. No, no, only his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes, and there was nothing wrong in thinking about his brother’s eyes, right?

“Fëanáro?” It seemed he spent a little too long thinking about those things. He swallowed hard, and she took it as a sign. It was clearly his first time, and she led him by the hand to her chambers.

“Nerdanel, wait…” he slipped his hand from hers. She looked confused and hurt. “Wait, we… we cannot do this here, not like this.” She answered with only a frown. 

“I respect your father. He took me under his roof. I cannot betray his trust. Furthermore, the workers will be arriving soon. They also trust me not to mislead them.” 

And as he said it, he knew he was right. It didn’t matter how much he despised politics. If he took Nerdanel unwedded, it would be a disgrace for his father, not to mention Nerdanel’s reputation would be thoroughly talked about in the city. No, he couldn’t do it. It had nothing to do with his brother, it was about what was right. He sighed with relief, realizing he only had to use his cunning sense to convince himself that this was the right thing to do.

“How very noble of you, my prince,” she mocked but acquiesced, leaning in to kiss him again.

A ring. His mind clicked. Yes, it should be a beautiful ring, so Nolofoinwë could match it with the circlet of tiny diamonds he already had. He spun on his heel, leaving a baffled Nerdanel behind. He resumed work at once with this new idea in his mind. The girl was starting to learn not to interrupt him during these outbursts of creativity. 

For Fëanáro, it didn’t matter how hard he worked on the design and then the execution: that day seemed to drag. Fëanáro decided he would ride to the palace that very night so he could talk to his father about… this. Whatever it was. Did it mean he needed to get married? He stopped bending the silver to pinch the bridge of his nose. He never thought of it… but now it seemed the logical choice.

When he had finished the ring, he heard praises from those working beside him and grinned, knowing Nolofinwë would like it too. He folded into a cloth and put it in the inside pocket of his tunic. He quickly put away his tools and went to his room to pack. He glanced at the door and saw Nerdanel standing there, leaning against the doorjamb.

“Where are you going?” Nerdanel asked, no reproach in her voice. She sounded merely curious.

“I had planned on visiting my family. It’s been a long time, and I miss them.” He told no lies.

“Today of all days?” She asked, hopeful that they could repeat what they’d done in the wee hours.

“I had already decided,” he replied, revealing no emotions.

“When will you return?”

“In a week, probably.”

“All right. I expect you back in a week, then… _lover_ ,” she stole a kiss.

He pulled away with a wry smile and went to borrow a horse from Mahtan’s stables. He needed to see his brother, to look into his eyes, and be sure that his mind was playing tricks with him. The freezing bite of a coming storm slithered under his cloak, and he pulled it tighter, ducking his face into the warm wool to ward off the chill. But the cold tempered his thoughts, and he began to wonder where his desires truly lay. He felt none for Nerdanel when they kissed, and it seemed unnatural since elves of his age were known for their impetuous behavior.

He also knew that to desire another male was against the Laws – he didn’t know why, though. Curiously, the thought didn’t frighten him with guilt as he imagined it would. To desire males would be inconvenient for society, but he couldn’t care less about that. Who were they to tell him what his body should or should not desire, anyway? 

But his mind revolved around the question: how could he be sure he wanted males more than females if he had no experience with neither? Was it proof enough what happened to his body today? No, it could not be. He was tired from work, sleeping little. And he was focusing on his brother’s ring. _That must be it_ , he tried to convince himself. Maybe Nerdanel had caught him on a bad day. 

Either way, the ideal would be to experiment with males to be sure. It could be one of his biology assignments if nothing else. He felt, now with certainty, it was his obligation to understand how his body worked, regardless of the face he had thought about over these months. That thought would have to wait its turn to be critically analyzed. Luckily, he knew exactly with whom this experiment was going to be.


	13. Where desires truly lay

Fëanáro rode through the gate and saw his father descending the stairs, already waiting for him. A servant came running and took the reigns. He dismounted lightly and clashed into Finwë’s welcoming arms. The king took the young man’s face between his hands and smiled fondly, raining kisses over his son’s face. Fëanáro laughed at the demonstration and enfolded his father in another tight hug.

“It’s been too long, Curufinwë!”

“Only five months, atar. But I’ve missed you too,” he said, letting his father drag him through the yard with one arm over his shoulders.

They went straight to Finwë’s study, for the elder was eager to speak to him. Once they were comfortably seating, the king poured his son a generous goblet of wine.

“Father, please, send in some food. I haven’t eaten all day, and this amount of wine will cause me havoc,” he laughed.

“Of course, what was I thinking?”, he asked apologetically.

He sent a servant to bring cheese, dried fruits, and honey cake. Fëanáro suppressed an amused grin, seeing that his father was much more easygoing about having out-of-time meals than when he was a child, offering unasked wine and treats. The servant returned with a full platter and left the two alone, closing the door behind him.

“Now, my boy, you can begin by telling me why haven’t you eaten? You are pale!”

“Nonsense,” he almost choked with a delicious dried apricot, nervously thinking that his looks were giving him away. He found a reassuring smile for his father nonetheless. “I was just busy and forgot completely about it.” He didn’t mention the many disturbing thoughts that had taken his appetite away. Finwë must never suspect.

“And what could be so important?” the king raised his brows. He seemed to have forgotten how focused his son could be when he lost himself in his work.

“A gift. For Nolofinwë,” he avoided looking at his father in the eyes. 

If he met Finwë’s gaze, he would feel compelled to spill out his confusion and angst – he couldn’t lie to his father’s face! – so he kept his head carefully bowed, concentrating on eating. Fortunately, Finwë didn’t realize the doubts that flooded his son's mind. They were mercilessly interrupted by someone banging the double doors open. Fëanáro’s gaze was captured by Nolofinwë’s dramatic entrance. He froze. His brother seemed even taller than the last he saw him, and his completion into a full-grown man should be in no time. And his eyes…

Fëanáro clutched his hand in the armchair, and his breath caught in his lungs. His brother’s eyes filled the room with its intense blue light, and Fëanáro felt them illuminating everything around him. His heart raced in his chest, and he didn’t realize he had stood up. Nolofinwë laughed and flew into his arms – which he also didn’t register had been open. The top of Nolofinwë’s head was already higher than his chin, and he couldn’t help himself but plant a kiss there, where he so often did. The poignant scent of lavender soap invaded his nostrils. The embrace was fierce but quick, and his brother disengaged, laughing again.

“Why didn’t you say you were coming, brother? Father and I have missed you terribly! It was torture to endure these months without you, wasn’t it, atar? But why do you look so pale? What happened? Is something amiss?”

“For Varda’s sake, child, let him breathe!” Finwë scolded with a smile, making Fëanáro chuckle.

“I’m sorry, háno, but I’m so glad to see you!”

“I am too, little brother,” Fëanáro smiled and squeezed his brother's shoulder gently.

His heart was pounding in his chest from the intensity of Nolofinwë’s gaze, but it was also flooding with genuine, brotherly love. How could it be possible to feel so conflicted? How could he be flooded by all those emotions at once? He wanted to drown himself inside the blue vastness of Nolofinwë’s eyes, and yet, he was still his little brother, with that boyish, innocent look on his face. He was taller, but childhood held on to him.

“Join us, Nolofinwë,” their father said. “Let us catch up with your big brother, shall we?”

The youth smiled so brightly that Fëanáro couldn't help but chuckle again. They moved to the comfortable couches on the other side of the room, and Finwë poured a small amount of wine to his youngster, who smiled appreciatively.

“It’s only because you are here that atar pours me wine, brother,” he grinned. His adorable smile was imprinted in his face.

“Well, why can’t we have a happy family reunion?” the king answered cheerfully.

Nobody questioned the absence of Indis in their midst. Word had come to Fëanáro that the queen was pregnant, and he, for once, didn’t resent having another member in their house if it meant getting her out of his way.

"Tell me everything, pytia háno! How things fare with you?"

"Oh, Fëanáro, are you going to pretend _anything_ happens in this palace? You are the one living in the city! You must tell us the news!"

To that, Fëanáro had to laugh, all of a sudden feeling the palm of his hands wet with anxiety. He wanted to tell his father about Nerdanel, but he wasn't sure he wanted his brother to listen. _Why not? What's the problem with that?_ He swallowed hard. Unexpectedly, his father came to his rescue.

"Your brother told me he has been working hard, certainly he doesn't have neither the time nor the intention to lift his nose from the anvil," he smiled at his adored son.

"I don't, indeed. The forges consume my day, but I can't complain. I'm learning a lot, and already gained the respect of all the smiths."

"I never doubted you, Fëanáro, not for one second!" the king admitted. "Go on, show your brother!" He incited, but Fëanáro stiffened and hesitated. He had imagined surprising Nolofinwë privately, so he could indulge at the response for his gift alone with his brother. Why he fancied that he couldn't say. He had run out of plausible explanations for his actions or wishes. Under his father's attentive gaze, however, he pushed the thought away. It was better if they weren't alone, he reasoned.

“I have a gift for you,” Fëanáro said to his brother at last. 

Nolofinwë gave him a sheepish look. Fëanáro gave him the cloth and Nolofinwë unfolded with a gasp. The mithril was almost white and sparkled where it met with the blue gem. The stone reflected the light both from the metal and the lamp that burned in the room, making the little drops of water inside it come alive. Finwë gasped in surprise when Nolofinwë turned the ring in his finger.

“Fëanáro, this is… exquisite,” his brother said breathless, eyes wide with the quality of the work.

“By Varda…!” Finwë was agape. Nolofinwë handed the precious jewelry to his father, so he could take a closer. “I never thought you could get even better in what you were already perfect, Curufinwë, but this _is_ perfection!”

Fëanáro was glad as always with the praise, but much more so seeing his brother beguiled with the gift. Nolofinwë put on the ring, and it seemed to capture the depth inside his blue eyes, one light enhancing the other. Fëanáro had planned for this, but he didn't anticipate his own reaction. He caught his breath a second time that night, entranced by the two blue-diamond jewels staring at him. He blinked and found himself being thrust back by his brother in another fierce embrace.

“Thank you, I shall never take it off,” the muffled voice said in his hair. 

Fëanáro couldn’t properly return the hug without feeling his body and mind responding in a thousand different ways – he shivered, trembled, and his heart raced again with the proximity of his brother's body. He patted his brother’s back lumpishly but smiled when Nolofinwë released him.

“It is truly remarkable! You are the most talented elf in Arda, and your brother must be very honored to use it,” the king said, stroking Fëanáro’s hair with devotion. 

With the corner of his eye, he saw Nolofinwës’s sad, resigned smile, lowering his head in recognition of his supposed inability, to which Fëanáro didn't agree at all! He might not be that skilled with manual work, but his brother could handle words (his words, his alphabet!) better than anybody he knew. Fëanáro felt sudden anger against his father, diminishing his brother’s worth and not being able for once acknowledging his talents. Even though that look on his brother’s face didn’t last more than a split second - after all, Nolofinwë agreed that there was none like his beloved brother - it didn’t feel right. He felt worse when Nolofinwë looked up at him again, and there was only love in his eyes.

“I have heard Nolvo is striving in his studies and is a talented writer,” he tried, forcing a sneer that petered into a blushful smile in Nolofinwës’s features.

“How would you know that?”

“Ah, brother, Rúmil always has flattering words for your essays,” he said, trying to sound more convincing than his father’s lack of support. Also, he _had_ heard Rúmil said that more than once. He also knew from his former master that his brother's work was discussed by the other lambengolmors with interest - not the same they had shown for his own work when he was younger, truth be told, but to know Nolofinwë was recognized among the elders was one more reason to be proud of his little brother.

“Well, my sons, it pleases my heart immensely to have both of you here,” Finwë ignored the comments about Nolofinwë’s achievements, and Fëanáro saw his brother sulk with a sigh. He opened his mouth to shout outraged at their father, but what the king said next silenced him: “And it’s good that both of you are in such a good mood, for now we must speak of more important matters.”

The two princes glanced briefly at each other, wordlessly communicating this sudden change of subject couldn't mean anything good. Nolofinwë wondered if they were discovered in their latest misbehaves. He honestly didn’t remember which might have been, but if this was about liquor disappearing from the cellars every time Fëanáro came home, he needed to come up with a quick excuse.

“It has come to my attention that neither of you has engaged in social activities recently, and the time has come for you to start thinking about marriage. Especially you, Curufinwë, now that you have come of age.”

The statement fell like a rock in a lake of still waters, sending waves of shock in the room. The brothers mirrored each other’s gawping, aghast expressions, and Finwë could have laughed if the situation didn’t require sobriety.

“I know,” the king continued, when several minutes of death-like silence followed, “that you spend a lot of time with Mahtan’s daughter, but she is not the right match for you, although she is noble-born. If-”

Finwë’s speech was interrupted by Fëanáro, who threw back his head to laugh in complete incredulity. He couldn’t believe his ears!

“-if only you could spend more time with the daughters of other noblemen, I’m certain you would find someone of your liking. For example, there is High King Ingwë’s own daughter, Anairë, which I think will be perfect for you. Her mother is a Noldor, after all.” 

Finwë finished the sentence almost yelling since Fëanáro hadn’t stopped laughing wildly, as if the idea of marrying Anairë was utterly ludicrous.

“What can possibly be so amusing, Curufinwë?” his father said coldly, seeming to forget all the pleasantries of just some minutes ago.

“You can’t really mean it,” he replied with a defiant smile.

“Why wouldn’t I? You are both young and need to secure the stability of the Crown.”

“And I suppose the Crown doesn’t give two shits to those involved in the marriage, as long as it produces children, isn’t that right?”

“Fëanáro, you know perfectly well that I want your happiness,” Finwë confronted his son’s enraged gaze, “but that is the principal purpose of the marriage, yes.”

“What if I say I don’t want to get married?” Fëanáro challenged with a defiant smile, purely out of spite. 

The idea of imposing matrimony was in itself abhorrent, and Fëanáro felt his entire body burning in a white, hot rage. The original idea he had of telling Finwë about what happened with Nerdanel vanished from his mind, erased inside the blazing fire that sparkled within his eyes.

“I don’t care if you want it or not, it’s your _duty_!” Finwë’s voice boomed like thunder. “Both of you shall do it as Princes of the Noldor, for the peace of our kingdom and our people, _your people_ ,” he said, eyes flashing with rising anger.

“And _I_ don’t care for the damned politics! The Unbegotten didn’t get married for politics, _you_ didn’t do that! You married not one but _two_ women you professed to love, even if one is a poor substitution of the other,” he hissed like a wildcat in response. 

Those last words brought a silence heavy as storm clouds inside the room, and Nolofinwë felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Before anyone could breathe or say anything, Fëanáro kicked back his chair.

“I am _not_ going to be forced upon marriage, and I want to see you make me do it!” He yelled, leaving the room noisily like a hurricane, leaving wreckage behind.

Nolofinwë exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. Even though he sympathized with Fëanáro, wanting no more wives than he did, he knew that more than his duty for the sake of politics, it was a matter of unity for the people. In the end, as Princes of the Noldor, they were the ones that should carry on with the family lineage. They wouldn’t be able to do that unless they were married – the Laws didn’t allow getting children outside a stable union.

Nolofinwë wondered if that was what bothered his brother so much, and he meant to follow him but stood still. He didn't feel outraged as Fëanáro, for he knew from a very young age this day would come. He didn’t want to get married, but he would if he had to. And Finwë looked so tired, suddenly so much older, like something inside him had broken. He felt sorry for seeing his father that hurt, but it was his own doing. He should have eased the subject, not expected Fëanáro to agree with such a caging like an obedient child. This, more than anything, was something that Nolofinwë understood of his brother only too well – enough to make him forget the offense made against his mother.

“I am not of age yet, atar, but I will wed when the time comes,” he said, quietly inside Finwë’s weary gaze. “And I know Fëanáro says so because he hasn’t found anyone he cares for.” Yet, but he would. His brother burned too brightly to stay single for much longer. Being in the city, Nolofinwë could only imagine how many women must be swooning around him – and the thought of seeing his brother corresponding made his stomach sink.

Finwë looked at his younger son with renewed awe in his eyes and nodded. 

“You are wise to think so, my son. And I thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me, I know it’s my duty. But imposing marriage on my brother is not going to be an easy task. It will be better if he chooses for himself as the Eldar did in the old days.”

Finwë didn't answer immediately, his eyes were suddenly fogged and lost in some memory. He exhaled after a long pause and said briskly: “The old days are over, Nolvo."

Nolofinwë blinked at that. He was obviously missing something, but he didn’t have the heart to ask his father. He finally stood up and left the room, going straight to his brother’s chambers. The door was locked. He knocked several times, calling for him. When he received no answer, he went around the garden and climbed his window, which was open. But Fëanáro’s room was empty and dark. 

Nolofinwë ran to the yards. Empty. He ran all over the palace, but his brother was nowhere to be found, and the few people who still were awake hadn’t seen him. He frowned. Fëanáro wasn’t likely to disappear like that, and he worried. What could be happening with his big brother?

***

Fëanáro stormed out of his father’s study and went to his chambers, banging the door behind him and making the torches in the corridor flicker – one of them went out. He was breathing heavily, sharp pants coming out of his chest like knives. Why was he reacting like this? He was not a youth anymore, with hormones screaming out of his pores to justify his fury. What was happening to him? He paced the room back and forth, but the walls were too oppressive.

He pressed both hands on his eyes and felt like screaming to the pillows. Was it because of Anairë? Really? What difference did it make if it was Anairë or Nerdanel? He didn’t love any of them! He bit his tongue hard at the thought that flew through his mind, not allowing it to take hold. He tried holding back the tears with greeted teeth. No, he wasn’t going to think about this now, not today. He needed fresh air. A knock. 

“Fëanáro! Fëanáro, are you there?”

His head snapped up. No, no, no, his brother mustn’t see him like this! He opened the window quietly and climbed down, listening as Nolofinwë made a second attempt at the door. He flew down the path to his mother’s old chambers. He remembered her old garden, a place uninhabited now, even by his father. He climbed the walls swift as a squirrel and landed on the soft grass. He reclined his back to the wall, lowered his head and wept, his heart bleeding with confusion and doubts.

He didn’t know what to think, what to do… he only wished he could _stop_ thinking these things, stop thinking about the way his brother looked, how his eyes shone and how beautiful his smile was. He muffed his cries in his arms, but couldn’t stop the tears from falling. 

The next thing he knew, when he opened his eyes, was that he sat in the colorful, untended garden displayed exclusively for him in daylight. Even abandoned, it was more precious than anything he’d seen in Valinor. He didn’t remember how many flowers his mother had planted. _All the species of flowers Yavanna grew in her pastures, it seems_. Despite the tall grass, there was no weed. He smiled wistfully, running his fingers through the delicate petals and the old oak bark, feeling his mother’s power over that sacred hidden place calling to him again in his distress. Fëanáro sighed.

It has been a long time since he thought of this place or his mother, and he wished she was here. He was certain she would have the right things to say to soothe his heart and wipe away the chaos that roared inside of him. He _knew_ she wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t be repelled by the confessions he desperately needed to make. 

No, but he couldn’t succumb to those thoughts, not yet. He clenched his jaw resolutely. He needed to talk to Nolofinwë, and that’s what he was going to do. He looked at the garden once more before climbing the wall back. He mustn’t forget he had this little secret refuge inside the palace.

***

“Nolvo, are you there? Can I come in?”

“Yes!” his brother cried from a distance behind the door.

Fëanáro opened the door and looked around. Nolofinwë was in the bathroom, the scent of soap and steaming water floating around the chamber.

“I… uh, I can come later,” Fëanáro said, wincing at his own words. He never did that before, why would he now?

“Why in the hells would you do that?” Nolofinwë seemed to read his thoughts, stepping into view with only his breeches on. His wet raven hair fell in his shoulders like a cloak, and Fëanáro caught his breath. Oh, his brother may look like a little boy, but his body was not of a child anymore. He had muscles in his stomach, and his arms looked firm, his biceps worked out. He always liked sports and had decidedly been training.

“Brother, are you all right?” Suddenly Nolofinwë was standing in front of him, frowning, those huge eyes reading right through him. He felt his brother take his hand in a caress, worried.

“Yes, yes, sorry, háno, I am a little distracted today,” he withdrew his hand gently and moved to look at the window, the desk, the ceiling, anything but his brother.

“I’m really sorry about what happened last night. I told Father that was the obvious wrong approach with you.”

“Me too. But Father is not exactly known for his delicacy with words,” Fëanáro said dryly, sitting on the bed.

“At least now we know who you take from,” Nolofinwë smirked, giving him such a grin that, were these other times, he would have received a flying pillow on his head. But Fëanáro could only stare at that smile. How could he have been so blind to never notice how beautiful his brother’s mouth was? 

“Brother, what is going on with you?” Nolofinwë sat beside him and retook his hand.

Fëanáro couldn’t take his hand away this time without raising his brother’s suspicion, so he let himself be gently touched. He willed himself to talk about anything, anything at all, and heard his own voice telling his brother about Nerdanel.

“We… she kissed me,” he said, staring at the floor, not daring to look in his brother’s eyes.

“That is hardly surprising,” Nolofinwë tried to steady his voice but felt how it sounded a little shaken. Fëanáro tilted his head with inquisitively. “She has been prowling over you since the beginning,” he added, staring at his own hand lying over Fëanáro’s bigger, calloused one, thinking how it would feel to be in her place and to be the one kissing those full lips, being touched by those hands.

“And how would you know how that’s like?” Fëanáro asked, feeling his throat dry and his voice coming out harsh.

“I’ve seen it more than once,” and Nolofinwë looked at him in such a way that Fëanáro took his hand away and stood up, giving his back to Nolofinwë. His heart was racing again, and he put a hand on his chest, trying to control the frantic pounding by sheer touch. 

_Ask me how was the kiss, ask me how it was, and I will volunteer to show you_ , Fëanáro dreamed wildly.

“Are you going to speak with atar about it?” Nolofinwë didn’t listen to his soundless pleas.

“I… don’t know. But I wish we could speak of something else,” he said and ran his hands through his hair.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, brother, you didn’t, it’s just…”, he couldn’t finish. His thoughts weren’t as organized as he wished, he had no control over his emotions, and that was suffocating, infuriating!

“I know what you need, polda háno!” Nolofinwë stood up and grabbed Fëanáro by the arm, turning him around with a broad grin. “You need a distraction! Let us go hunting or riding or swimming somewhere! The day is fine and warm, and I’m sure you could use some rest from... well, from whatever it is.” His smile was pure and innocent.

Fëanáro’s mouth crooked upwards, and he sighed. He wanted more than anything to spend time with his brother like when they were children, but something told him that things would never be the same anymore. Besides, he didn’t know how much he could handle being so close to Nolofinwë without...

“Come on, brother! It never took you so long to decide to spend time with me!” Nolofinwë sounded a little hurt.

“Not today, Nolvo, I don’t feel like it.”

“Oh, _please_! You never refused any of these things! What’s going on with you, Fëanáro?” Nolofinwë lightly shook his shoulders, trying to wake his brother for life again, and Fëanáro felt a frisson running through his spine at his brother’s touch.

“No, please, Nolvo, don’t insist!” He yanked his arms away and meant to get past his brother, who now stood in his way. 

“Ah," Nolofinwë said playfully, that boyish mischief on his face. "I think you’ve got used with solitude at the forges, brother! But I’m not going to let you slip away that easily!” 

That said, he jumped forward and grabbed Fëanáro by the waist. He meant to play wrestle like they did so many times whenever one of them felt upset. Fëanáro saw that intention too, but his desperation to get away from Nolofinwë’s embrace got stronger when he felt the weight of his brother against his body. He tried to disengage a little rougher than he intended, which made Nolofinwë lose his feet, and they both stumbled, leaning into each other. 

Nolofinwë laughed, and Fëanáro felt his brother’s warm breath brushing his neck, prickling his sensitive skin. That was enough to send a rush of blood flowing through his entire body, red stains coloring his cheeks, his ears, and, less obviously ( _merciful Valar!_ ), bringing him into full arousal. Dread crept into his spine, and he widened his eyes in horror at the possibility that his brother could feel it.

“ _Stop_!” He pushed Nolofinwë harder than he should have, sending his brother to the ground.

A heartbeat of silence, in which they stared at each other, and Fëanáro saw the hurt in his brother’s eyes, the pain _he_ had inflicted, a feeling of rejection so evident in his beautiful face that made Fëanáro want to vomit. He ran from the chamber and the sight of Nolofinwë as fast as he could, flying through the palace while his eyes were blurred by tears. He felt lightheaded like his brain didn’t belong inside his skull.

The shock of realizing his brother was the source of his desires was overwhelming. He wanted his brother more than anything in the world. He wanted to run his fingers through his ebony hair and taste his warm lips, to stuck his tongue inside Nolofinwë’s mouth and get lost in his cave, to touch him, all of him, and taste the salt of his body. 

_He is my_ brother _, how can I even think about such things?_

A voice in his mind that said “ _half-_ brother” was violently quashed. 

The tears finally came as he finally stopped down in a bench and doubled over his chest against his knees. 

_What is wrong with me?_

Were all the signs ever there? How could he have missed them? _Did I miss them, though?_ The voice said again. Since when had he felt such passion for his _little brother_? Was it passion? What in the bloody hells was it? His cock was still hard in his breeches, and he cried harder. _Gods, he will hate me!_ He could almost see the disgust in Nolofinwë’s face, turning from him with revulsion. That image was unbearable! No, his brother should never know about this. But how could he ever face Nolofinwë again?


	14. Misunderstandings

Nolofinwë sat on the floor, still staring at the place his brother had fled from like a whirlwind. They had never had such an argument before, and Nolofinwë didn’t know what triggered it. _Was it something I said_? He considered. The youngster couldn’t help thinking that, unless something was seriously wrong with his big brother, he knew Fëanáro would never be purposefully cruel. The only reasonable thing to do was to go after him and clear things out. 

Nolofinwë would never accept that Fëanáro would avoid him entirely, nor would he ever forgive himself if he let his pride come between his brother and him. Resolutely, he went to find Fëanáro. His brother needed him. As he walked with firm steps towards his chambers with, crossing empty corridors, he heard a muffled voice. Someone was crying. He halted, listening carefully and alarmed. After a few heartbeats, yes, he had no doubts: never in his life had he heard his brother weep, but his voice, even if covered by sobs, was unmistakable. That his brother was sad didn’t attenuate the surprise. Fëanáro was always the strongest, receiving, for them both, their father’s harsh reprimands without ever letting Nolofinwë take the blame alone. He was the protector Nolofinwë had from the scolding of parents and the cruel mouths of Tirion, who insisted on comparing the half-brothers.

Nolofinwë followed the flowered path until he saw his brother, looking like a wounded animal. His body was folded, shaking with the sobs, forehead touching his knees, and hiding his face. The sight of his confident brother bent in such a vulnerable position disturbed him, and he felt as if the giant hand of an Ainu tried to squish his heart out through his mouth. He had to set his teeth and bit his tongue lest he would pick up the empathy thread and start crying, too. He couldn’t let that happen. His brother needed him, and Nolofinwë had to be the strong one now. He approached Fëanáro cautiously, afraid his brother was going to snap and run away from him again. He sat down beside him, and when Fëanáro didn’t protest, he laid a hand on his shoulder. When that didn’t cause any reaction, either, he tightened his grip reassuringly.

“Brother…” Nolofinwë whispered. 

Fëanáro didn’t turn against him, didn’t even move. Nolofinwë’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t bear seeing Fëanáro like this, so he pulled his brother against his chest. Instead of fleeing, Fëanáro buried his head on his little brother’s hair. Nolofinwë couldn’t find the will to be mad at him, he just couldn’t! When Fëanáro’s sobs started wetting his shirt, a knot got stuck in Nolofinwë’s throat. He swallowed hard, fighting back his own tears. He stroked his big brother’s back and hair with trembling hands.

“Brother, what is going on?” He said softly. 

Fëanáro, for his part, unable to resist his brother’s comforting arms, fisted his tunic and cried harder, thoughts spinning, heart tight as an almond’s shell. Nolofinwë couldn’t possibly begin to understand his conflicted feelings. Nolofinwë and his ridiculously fragrant hair, intoxicating his mind, numbing the rest of his senses. Oh, how he wished he could hold his little brother against him without the urge twitching on his lips to do more!

“Brother, please, talk to me!” Nolofinwë mumbled.

He felt Fëanáro shake his head in denial, still buried in his hair. Nolofinwë sighed, not knowing what to do or how to comfort him.

“Please, háno,” he whispered in his ear and felt Fëanáro shiver in his arms. “Is this about Nerdanel?” He tried, fearing the answer even as he spoke.

He felt his brother sigh and shudder under him. So this was it. It was about the ginger girl. Something else caught in Nolofinwë’s throat, and he swallowed with difficulty. He could never have thought she had such a powerful hold on him, but then… they never spoke about these things before today. Why would they? As long as Nolofinwë could remember, he had never seen his brother interested in anyone. Now he was living under Nerdanel’s roof, what had he thought was going to happen? If he was true to himself, this was _precisely_ what he had expected. He always knew he would have to face this moment, eventually. Nevertheless, knowing the source of his brother’s anguish didn’t bring him any more joy, didn’t lift any weight off his heart. Deep, deep down, Nolofinwë’s fantasies ran wild to a place where he stood beside his brother and he alone, holding hands and loving freely - even if he didn’t know the full extent of what that meant.

Because even if Nolofinë had no experience with girls, having shown no interest in any of them so far, of love, he knew. He loved and wanted with his brother since he had known what want was. Fëanáro had been his only source of desire and would remain so, he knew that much as well. But now, hearing his wordless confessions, Nolofinfë understood these were no more than illusions that could and would never happen. His foolish hopes were crushed under Nerdanel’s boots. He fought back the necessity to strip this woman out of his brother’s heart - this was not what his brother needed. Fëanáro needed comfort, needed _him_ to be his safe haven. _Reverted roles_ , Nolofinwë thought bitterly. It was Fëanáro who always made Nolofinwë stop crying for his silly childish reasons, which now seemed petty and ridiculous. A broken heart was a serious thing. No. He couldn’t afford to dream. 

“That’s all right,háno, you can tell me,” Nolofinwë sought to soothe him the best he could, chewing and spitting out the bitterness of his heart.

After a long while of wetting his clothe with silent tears, Fëanáro’s sobs subsided, and he pulled back, cleaning his face with the back of his hand.

“I’ve ruined your tunic, I am sorry,” his voice was gruffed.

“For this? Don’t be. Be sorry for pushing me when all I want to do is help you,” the reproach came mercilessly out of Nolofinwë’s mouth before he could refrain himself, his icy tone slicing through the air like winter’s frost. 

For all it was worth, Fëanáro looked like he was punched in the guts. Nolofinwë saw a dangerous flash in his brother’s eyes. Nolofinwë thought that, if there was a first time to hit back, this would be it. Nolofinwë braced himself, already expecting a blow in the nose. 

Surprisingly, Fëanáro lowered his stare to where their hands had joined without neither of them realizing it. After a few tense heartbeats, he murmured at last, “I am, you know… sorry.” 

Nolofinwë’s brows shot up in wonder. He never thought he would hear his brother admit being wrong. Fëanáro was the kind of person who always had an answer in the tip of his tongue to explain his most reckless behavior, and confessing he had wronged came without saying. Nolofinwë’s own conflicting feelings of anger, frustration, and jealousy were swiftly suppressed by compassion.

“I know, háno _,”_ he replied quietly, rubbing his brother’s hand with his thumb. “You were an idiot,” he put on a half-smile, making Fëanáro’s lips quirk, “but please, let me help you. Don’t hide from me!”

Fëanáro remained silent, incapable of looking Nolofinwë in the eyes. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t open his heart, even if it was to say he needed to be alone – because now, having his hands between Nolofinwë’s, he didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t want his brother to ever leave his side again. This very idea, though, concatenated with the previous ones and made his heart race with anxiety. Being this close to Nolofinwë was as much of a poison as it was its antidote.

“I can’t, Nolvo, I can’t! I’m sorry!” Fëanáro shook his head vehemently, freeing his hands and pressing his eyes again.

Nolofinwë frowned. None of it made sense. Was he in love for Nerdanel and had been turned down? His nostrils flared in anticipated anger. He would kill her with his own hands if she hurt him! But if this was his immense pride talking, he knew Fëanáro would never come around to speak freely. Nolofinwë sighed. Until this day, they had kept no secrets from each other. The idea that his brother hid his pain from him twisted inside his chest. He was not going to give up!

“Háno…” he tried again, saying softly, “don’t you trust me?”

Fëanáro’s looked down at him with huge eyes. “How can you–of course I do, brother!” He grimaced. “But I just–I can’t tell you about this,” he stumbled upon the words. “I don’t want to, please stop insisting,” his voice cracked with the last sentence.

Nolofinwë looked down at his own hands curled in his lap, not knowing what to do, how to behave, and feeling awkwardly immature. He understood. Fëanáro needed an adult, and he wasn’t one. Maybe he would have brought the matter to their father before their ugly discussion took his brother’s confidence away. He was determined, though, to stop Fëanáro’s suffering if he could. An idea popped in his head.

“All right, enough with the sulking,” he said tenderly, smiling with a twinkle in his eyes Fëanáro knew only too well. “Go back to your chambers, I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

His brother looked at him with a crease between his brows. He didn’t have strength left to argue with Nolofinwë, so he just nodded and went. Nolofinwë took another path inside the palace, but Fëanáro didn’t look back to see where he went. He wished, with a pang in his chest, his brother wouldn’t come back. Being in his presence was conflicting enough, and not being able to open his heart was even worse.

But eventually, Nolofinwë did come back, that mischievous grin on his face, the same he wore every time he was up to something. He closed the door quickly behind him and unfolded his tunic to reveal a stolen bottle of wine.

“So, what do you say? Shall we drink away whatever is eating you up?”

A smile unfurled in Fëanáro’s lips against his will. His brother had discovered the knack to leave the hatch to the cellar open, so he could get in and out without needing anyone to hold it for him. It sounded good enough for him.

“Feel honored, polda háno. This is an exceptional harvest!” Nolofinwë flashed him a bright smile while uncorking. “It’s made from the frozen crops the Teleri grow only in winter. I got it from Father’s secret reserve.” Answering Fëanáro’s raised brows, he shrugged with a smirk, “Well, you deserve it.” 

He gestured with the bottle in his brother’s direction, and, looking into his eyes, Nolofinwë toasted _almiën!_ and took a sip straight from the neck of the bottle, as usual (they never borrowed glasses, it made the whole thing naughtier, and their laughter more satisfying at their own impudence). He coughed with the intensity of the wine and handed the bottle over. Fëanáro sat on the bed, still looking dispirited, but he sipped, grimacing. It was sweeter than the regular wines but more potent than any fruit liquor he had ever tasted.

“Nolvo, this is way too strong for you!” he reprimanded with a little more vivacity to his voice.

“Nonsense, brother! We’ve had worse!” Nolofinwë lied with another flashing grin, retaking the bottle and drinking a bigger gulp, sharing the space on the bed beside Fëanáro.

They sat and drank quietly until the wine loosened Nolofinwë’s tongue to the point where silence was unbearable.

“You know… it hurts me to see you don’t trust me enough to assuage your pain,” his voice was hushed and silky.

Fëanáro closed his eyes in distressed silence. “I trust you more than anyone in the world, Nolvo,” the words came quietly, not hiding the effort for self-control he was trying to imprint.

“Then why can’t you share your burden with me? Why won’t you let me help you, even if I don’t understand what it is?” Nolofinwë pleaded, his voice no more than a murmur. 

Fëanáro shut his eyes harder. _Ay, Nolvo, if you only knew…_ he wished he could say and do all the things that had been oppressing him since he arrived, but at the mere thought of Nolofinwë’s rejection to his desires, his convictions and wishes vanished in the air like ash in the wind. When Fëanáro looked back at Nolofinwë, he saw those luminous blue eyes burning with compassion and worry for him, and he wanted to tear his heart in a million pieces before having to see his brother look at him like that, so alluring.

“I just… I’m not ready to talk about it, Nolvo. Not yet.” The word “brother” got stuck in his tongue. How could he ever call him like that again with the very little brotherly thoughts flooding his mind?

“Well, háno,” Nolofinwë said after a pause, reaching for his hand and holding it tight, “whatever it is, I am here for you. Remember it!”

Fëanáro nodded and managed to pull up a smile. Nolofinwë slid closer to him and flung an arm around his waist, resting his head on Fëanáro’s shoulder. It was the best he could do. Fëanáro knew he left his brother in the dark, but it couldn’t be any different. He tilted his head to rest his cheek on Nolofinwë’s hair, smelling the lavender soap. He wished he could spend this night with his little brother laughing, doing silly things as they always did, goofing around, and not caring about that weight inside his chest. 

But what he really wanted was to raise his brother’s chin to his lips and claim him. He exhaled sharply and closed his eyes again. In the end, Nolofinwë was right: he was indeed heartsick, but not for the person his brother was thinking of.

***

The room was in complete darkness. The empty bottle of wine rolled on the floor, and two figures were spread on the bed, half-asleep. 

Nolofinwë looked astoundingly drunk, and Fëanáro wasn’t far off. His head was spinning, and the dim light that shone through the blackout played on the walls, giving him the sensation they were floating. Fëanáro was having a hard time keeping his eyes open, and he couldn’t remember how or when they had laid down. 

His head found the comfort of the mattress, and he stopped feeling the pounding of his heart so heavily against his ribcage. It had subdued, thank the Valar! If this was an effect of the alcohol, he was glad he had drunk it. He stared at Nolofinwë’s profile, shadowed by the curves of his cheekbones. His eyelashes projected even more shadows in his lovely face. He felt Nolofinwë’s curled fingers touch his forearm gently, seeming peaceful. Fëanáro carefully brushed away a lock of hair from Nolofinwë’s face, tugging it behind his ear, his fingers gently caressing its pointy, delicate tip.

The simple gesture made Nolofinwë open his eyes, two blue-diamond lamps shining in the dark. Their gazes met for some heartbeats. Fëanáro felt as if his body was being pulled towards Nolofinwë’s like a magnet. He shifted his position and came closer to him, covering Nolofinwë’s hand with his own. His brother closed his eyes again. The wine certainly had an effect on them. If these were other times, Fëanáro would have laughed.

The only thing he could do now was to shut his eyes close and pray to whichever Valar were listening that he would have the strength of will to remain in that position until tomorrow. He could feel Nolofinwë’s warm breath, the sweet scent of wine, closer to his face. Fëanáro squeezed his eyes harder and tried to think of something else. He didn’t dare open his eyes again, lest he would feel his brother’s intense gaze upon him and lose all his poorly gathered self-control. Fëanáro was perfectly still, feeling his brother breathing into sleep. He sensed he, too, was drifting to a blessed dream, where his brother’s mouth wouldn’t be there to tempt him.

He couldn’t tell for how long they stayed like that. Hours, perhaps? The light inside the room didn’t seem to change, and Fëanáro’s only feeling of the world was his brother’s constant breath touching him. 

Behind his eyelids, he saw Nolofinwë’s sweet face lighten with a laugh that could make his knees falter. They were running in the woods, daggers in hand. It was a dream. They were hunting, but Fëanáro wasn’t thinking about the game. He was much more worried about the elf he had in plain sight. The beauties of the world seemed pale compared to Nolofinwë’s joy and to the light playing inside his eyes. They were chasing a rabbit, his brother in front of him ducking to watch the animal. Suddenly, Nolofinwë turned to him with something in his hand. It seemed like the leaves of a fragrant plant. He waved the branch under his nose, and Fëanáro felt the leaves, soft as a butterfly’s wing, brushing his lips. It tickled, and he opened his mouth to laugh. Nolofinwë didn’t have to tease him so!

In this split second, in which Fëanáro was about to say something, he opened his eyes and was transported back to the dark room. He sucked in breath as he saw his brother’s nose almost touching his. A spike of shock ran through him as he realized, astonished, that the butterfly’s wings were actually Nolofinwë’s lips, and they were just touching his own. 

That was enough, however, to make him want to cry. He was torn by the idea of attempting more. If he opened his mouth a little, just a little, maybe he could feel those lips closer, press against them just a little bit more, enough so his brother wouldn’t be disturbed in his sleep. It was madness, he knew it – and yet he didn’t. The alcohol ran loud in his veins, and he had lost all sense of caution. He closed his eyes, fearing the pounding of his heart could be felt through the mattress, but he parted his lips anyway, infinitesimally. Just enough, just enough to feel a little bit more… 

A jolt of electricity took him by surprise as Fëanáro felt soft lips under his. He thought he would melt then and there. He couldn’t, however, appreciate it for long. Nolofinwë jumped as if he was stung by a bee. Fëanáro snapped his eyes open, alarmed and terrified. His brother looked confused, his blue eyes shining in the dark.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you!” Nolofinwë whispered, standing up quickly and putting distance between himself and the bed. Without a single glance back towards Fëanáro, he turned around, put his shoes on, and went to the door.

“Nolvo…” Fëanáro attempted, propping himself in one elbow, but his voice got stuck in his throat. He couldn’t, his heart was sinking altogether with his stomach.

“Don’t worry, go back to sleep,” Nolofinwë smiled dryly over his shoulder and left the room.

Cold despair shot through him. Fëanáro threw himself back on the bed pressing the heels of his hands on his eyes, feeling the tears flow to his ears and dampen his hair. How on Arda did he let that happen? How had he gotten that close to Nolofinwë, how had he allowed himself to do this? He had obviously scared the hells out of his brother, and with good reason! _Gods_ , how could he be so damned stupid?

***

 _Valar help me, that was strong!_ The empty bottle of wine fell from Nolofinwë’s sluggish hands. His brain was spinning inside his skull, and he felt his stomach was about to turn inside out. His eyes were heavy, and he needed to sleep. Without a second thought, he passed one hand on his brother’s arm and pulled him down on the bed beside him. _Just like we used to do_ , he smiled feebly. His brother wasn’t less drunk, for he let himself be dragged, eyes closed, seeming completely exhausted. 

They laid on their backs for a while, letting the silver light faintly paint the walls. Nolofinwë breathed hard, the wine carving its effects on his body, slowing his movements and thoughts. When the lurch in his stomach became more dangerous, he rolled to his side and cuddled closer to Fëanáro. His brother looked even more vulnerable now. If he could get closer enough, pat him exactly like father used to do, surely Fëanáro would be compelled to share the load that was oppressing his heart? But Fëanáro didn’t react to the proximity, apparently unaware of Nolofinwë’s sloppy plotting. Nay, that was just the clearest sign of the wine’s effect.

Nolofinwë shed a smile with the dark chamber. He was so drunk he couldn’t be able to slur a word out of his mouth even if he tried. He concentrated, then, on admiring his brother’s form. That was the only thing that kept his eyes mildly open. And he was _so beautiful_ like this, glowing softly at dusk. The crease in his forehead had now vanished, and Nolofinwë was glad to see that no lingering pain remained in his face. His breathing was steady, evidencing he had fallen asleep.

Nolofinwë closed his eyes as well, feeling the alcohol draining his thoughts away. If time had passed by, he couldn’t say. It didn’t feel much, though, when he felt Fëanáro shifting beside him. His curled hand touched his brother’s arm, and he firmly restrained the wish of caressing it, digging his nails in the palms of his hand. Maybe his brother needed his space, maybe he would be mad if Nolofinwë woke him up. 

A cool breeze crept inside the room, shifting the blackout and painting dancing pictures on the walls. Nolofinwë felt a restlessness in his bones, and there was a change in the air. With his mind’s eye, he could see a pale, shining figure blowing diamond dust above their heads. It was white as snow and beautiful and distant as the stars. It looked cold as ice, but as the figure loomed above them, the chamber seemed to get suddenly warm. His brother’s hand covered his as if he too could sense something was happening. Nolofinwë could feel electricity running through his hand from the junction of their bodies. If he opened his eyes, would the figure be there, or was this a dream? He felt his brother’s gaze piercing him and realized he was the source of all the staggering heat.

Expecting to verify the truth of his vision, Nolofinwë opened his eyes and saw Fëanáro watching him intently. If Nolofinwë wasn’t so drunk already, he would feel instantly inebriated by the power of those two sets of diamonds. Fëanáro’s eyes were blazing in the night like the brightest of stars, unparalleled with any of Varda’s creations, and the only thing shining in the shadows. He felt drawn to them as if pulled by strings. He saw his reflection, his own eyes staring blue back at him. 

He didn’t smile with his mouth, he couldn’t move a muscle except for his heart, but Nolofinwë felt, unquestionably, that that was the only thing he ever needed. He treasured his brother’s gaze in his mind as the most precious of things. Nolofinwë didn’t even care anymore if Fëanáro chose not to share his burden. He closed his eyes, saving that memory in his heart. Nolofinwë shifted slightly then, wanting to get closer to his brother’s brilliant, burning aura.

He stopped at a breath’s range, feeling Fëanáro’s exhales. Was he asleep again? He couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips up. Even drunk, his brother’s smell was as sweet as honey. How did he do it, Nolofinwë didn’t know. His brother never reeked of alcohol – which certainly was how he might be smelling right now. If only he could get a little closer... One millimetric movement and he was there, almost able to lick the honey off his lips. Fëanáro’s breath felt hotter on his face, and he smiled again, staying put, drinking anything that came out of his beautiful mouth. 

He thought he had drifted into sleep, but he couldn’t say. His mind was not entirely aware, but he still felt the hot, steady breath of Fëanáro soothing him, like the best of lullabies. He felt a sudden brush of a feather in his lips, something that was but wasn’t touching him. Was this a dream again, with the white, starry figure? He imagined Fëanáro tickling him out of sleep to annoy him because that’s what big brothers did. But then, it felt different than tickles. And it was definitely not a feather!

Nolofinwë opened his eyes for one second and saw Fëanáro’s face almost touching his, and with shocked, amazed eyes, he realized he was feeling his brother’s lips! How did that happen? How could he be so careless–he couldn’t say, not now. He was drunk, helplessly drunk, and the sight, the feel of his brother’s touch on him, was only adding to the drunkness of it all. He closed his eyes shut again, afraid he would snatch away this moment with some foolishness.

What if… no, it was crazy! Nolofinwë had never kissed anyone before, how could he possibly attempt to give Fëanáro something good to dream of if he didn’t know what he was doing? 

But what if. 

The idea of feeling Fëanáro’s lips more intensely swept through him like a thunderbolt. He could try. If he was really, really careful, Fëanáro wouldn’t feel a thing and would judge it as a consequence of a dream. It was insane, but he had to try. He just had to! Who could say when he would have such an opportunity again?

He shifted his head millimetrically; not even the mattress was disturbed. And then he felt him. Oh, Ainur, his touch was like fire itself! He knew his brother burned, only not _how much_! Fëanáro’s lips were soft and hot. In that split second they touched with Nolofinwë’s, they drew a line from his mouth straight to his groin, making his length get achingly hard under his breeches. The intensity was so unexpected he jumped, biting off a gasp just in time. Fëanáro opened his eyes and Nolofinwë panicked.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you!” Nolofinwë whispered hastily, his head brought to sudden conscience, feeling sober than he had ever felt in his life. 

He sprang from the bed, putting all the distance he could between himself and his brother. His arousal would be seen from Taniquetil if he faced Fëanáro like this. His chest was heaving anxiously, so he sat on the bed and put his shoes on. His cock throbbed and demanded a release he was afraid to give if he cast one single look at Fëanáro in bed. He couldn’t absolutely meet his eyes, or his brother would _know_.

“Nolvo…” Fëanáro propped himself in one elbow, sounding sleepy and apparently (thankfully!) unsuspecting.

“Don’t worry, go back to sleep,” Nolofinwë put up the best smile he could in that circumstance, again trying to move away from Fëanáro’s view. 

He couldn’t, however, completely block the beautifully spread body, eyeing him involuntarily (was it, though?) with the corner of his eyes. He thought he was going to come from that display alone. _I need to get out of here!_ Nolofinwë refrained the thought of running away like a madman, but he needed to leave. He closed the door behind him and prayed to all the Ainur, even the lesser ones, that his brother was utterly oblivious of the most dangerous adventure he had ever attempted.

 _Oh, please, please, please, he cannot have noticed!_ He pleaded silently, now running freely through the corridors to his own chambers. He couldn’t wait to get into the bathroom. He yanked his breeches down and touched himself into release with only a few strokes. Nolofinwë had never felt such an uncontrollable desire for his brother before. He wanted to kiss him all the time, but that had been different, and extremely powerful. But of course: they were nearly kissing! What in the bloody hells was he thinking? What if Fëanáro saw it? What, then? Would he tell him? Would Nolofinwë have the courage to confess _yes, brother, I am in love with you_?

That was ridiculous, and Nolofinwë felt even more so. It was but a wild fantasy, and he nearly ruined everything! Seed still dripped from his fingers, and he felt the alcohol climbing back to claim his senses. He thought he could vomit if he let his emotions win. He pressed the fingers of the clean hand in his eyes, feeling suddenly tired. 

No, he could never tell Fëanáro. He was terrified his brother wouldn’t understand. He was, for all the signs he had picked up that night, in love with Nerdanel. How would Fëanáro feel if Nolofinwë suddenly broke the news that his _little brother_ not only loved him but wanted to make things to him that were supposed to be forbidden even in his more private fantasies? 

He just knew Fëanáro would find some logical and brilliant explanation for his unnatural, sinful desires. Probably Nolofinwë was showing symptoms of some unknown disease, poison from a plant or animal. Something he ate, perhaps? Elves had no notions of body sickness, but the illness of the mind was a known thing – you had only to look at Fëanáro’s past and remember his mother. 

No, even that was ludicrous because Nolofinwë knew, in his heart, the reaction in his brother’s face: rejection. Worse: disgust. No, he would never admit it. But oh, it was splendid! Even if this memory grew like a canker to consume him, he would keep it locked inside his heart, like so many others, for the rest of his life.


	15. Hidden things

Almawen loved the palace. She loved the smell of fresh bread baked every morning, the scent of the many herbs that grew in the kitchen’s garden; she loved the texture of the marble walls, all the plants and flowers that blossomed inside them, the way the Tree Lights climbed its pure whiteness, and the beautiful tapestries that decorated all over her lord’s house – weren’t they exquisite? Queen Míriel was a true artist! She loved their lives inside the palace and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She was born inside it, in a room beside Queen Míriel’s, and the great lady herself came to see if her mother was faring well after her birth! That’s what Mother told her, anyway. By that time, when she was very young, and Mother still smiled, she used to talk a lot to Almawen. The baby that looked like a pale little mouse basked inside Mother’s warm embrace – whenever she wasn’t embracing the Queen, for Mother took care of her, too, being the first handmaiden and best friend since before the Great Journey. And when Mother and the Queen were together, arms folded in each other, whispering in each other’s ears and waves of laughter ringing loud and clear as the rain, Almawen learned how to be free inside the high walls.

She ran, giggling all the way through, to Father’s workshop. He took care of all woodwork ongoing projects for the King, who Father said was also his good friend since before Valinor. Almawen was so proud of their parents because they loved the royal family as much as she did. It was during her tasks to Queen Míriel that Mother often used the secret passages build to link some of the rooms behind walls, to make it more accessible for the servants to go to one place for the other when in haste. These passages were abundant inside her beloved palace and were hidden behind bookshelves, paintings, and mirrors leading to the King’s study, the kitchen, the pantry, the servant’s quarters, or the added sections built when the family grew. 

Mother taught her about these secret places, and with a lot of time in her hands and none to tell her otherwise, Almawen learned that there were even more. The mysterious tiny escapes were fit for small animals, better than people, and Almawen wondered if the palace had been build by children like her, scraggy and mouse-like – for only one her size could fit inside these small places. It was as if the whole area was built from the _inside_ , and she marveled that the servants weren’t aware of those hiding spots. 

These corridors in-between walls held their own magic. It was possible to hear the dripping of water from some unknown, invisible source, the muttering of the workers in the adjacent rooms, and the voices echoing back through the walls, thick as they were. Soon, Almawen learned more about the palace than any other, and oh, how she loved having places of the building that were entirely her own! The ones she liked best were these corridors that ran behind some of the chambers. The narrowness of such passages was such that no one could follow, leaving them for her claim alone. Nobody seemed to know this. But Almawen did. And she delighted running her fingers through the moisty touch of the walls here, its warmth there, the humming of this spot louder than the other.

The walls also told her many things, whispering secrets in her ears. Minuscule cracks on the marble stones blew an almost indistinguishable breeze that made one or two of her hair strands flutter. She discovered, then, these little wholes between two sets of stones, invisible to the eye, but enough to allow the sight from inside out (or was it the opposite?). From these, she unearthed new secrets that sent her heart flying high: she could watch her beloved King and Queen, and the boy that would soon come. She didn’t tell anyone about this, not the other children, not Laríel, not even Mother or Father. 

She also learned, by mere chance, the portraits hung inside the rooms had little holes carved instead of eyes, and through these eyes, she could also watch. The pictures, of course, were of no importance, for no one ever stared at their beauty. The minds that had hollowed those concealed eyes knew what they were doing. And so she watched them, always finding a little spot where they unraveled their lives in front of her soulful, loving eyes.

And she watched them. She watched as Queen Míriel was taken to another room, one she hadn’t had access to, so she didn’t see what happened. She knew Prince Curufinwë was born because she saw King Finwë come and go with the child in his arms, in and out of her burrow. The Prince was a precious, loud thing. She wished she could hold him, too, even if she didn’t know how to fit him inside her fragile arms. 

And then, just like that, Almawen never saw Queen Míriel again.

She heard her lady was taken – she never knew to where – and her life turned upside-down, for Mother’s mouth became severe. She didn’t laugh anymore, didn’t even smile, and stopped paying attention to her little girl. Almawen tried to reach her, but Mother was suddenly distant and cold as the white peaks of the Holy Mountain. Mother had stopped talking to her, and, one day, Mother stopped noticing her, too.

Almawen didn’t understand what was happening, and she spent many a night crying on Laríel’s lap. The maid soothed her in soft embraces, running her hand through Almawen’s dark brown hair, and did what Mother would never more do. When Mother’s eyes were as glassy and sad as her mouth, Almawen lost Father as well. At that time, she tried to see Father’s with his woodwork projects, building this other room, expanding that one, fixing the bridge over the pond in the garden. But he was always busy, always grave with a crease carved in his face, and never more found time to play, talk, hold Almawen. Little by little, Father stopped seeing his daughter as much as Mother had done.

After that, and much crying, and pleading, _please, come back to me_ Almawen learned to hold her tongue and hide among the infinite corridors of her palace-inside-the-palace, the many small storage rooms, chambers, cellars, doorways, and arches. Very soon, she learned to know the palace as her only friend. The other children of the King’s household never understood her love for those high walls and called her names, saying her small mice-y head made her look funny and say crazy things. She didn’t mind what the other children said because she couldn’t explain all the palace’s mystery even if she knew all the words in the world!

When the new Queen came, Mother was dismissed from her duties to King Finwë’s services and decided she wanted to live on the shores of Aman, among the Teleri. Mother spoke to Father (not to her, never more to her), and they agreed they would leave her with the new Queen. They never explained why they left, and so Almawen was left all alone with the tall, new woman who looked like a swan ready to take flight, atop her long, white neck. She heard Laríel plead with the new Queen to keep the little mouse-girl by her side, and the only thing the Queen did was nod her fair golden head.

Almawen never understood how her parents could abandon her (and the splendorous white walls of the palace) to get sand stick all over their skin. Why had they left? Why did Mother stop speaking to her? Why had she disappeared in their eyes? She was terrified she had become invisible, so she asked Laríel, but the maid comforted her with one sad smile curled in her lips.

“I see you, child,” but it seems she was the only one.

Almawen didn’t quite believe, but Laríel was the only one left. Her, the royal family, and the palace. She loved them as much as she loved Mother and Father, as if they all belonged together, even though they didn’t see her. Nobody saw her anymore. She was invisible, but at least she could watch them, even in their conflicts. The constant fights of Prince Fëanáro and the King, after lady Míriel was gone, were fierce, loud, and Almawen flinched when the Prince rebelled against his father, his yelling resounding through the closed doors, climbing the walls of the whole building like thunder. But she understood: the Prince feared he would become invisible, too. The coming of the Queen helped nothing at all.

After a while, when Prince Fëanáro’s achievements were greater than his grief, life in the palace seemed to have fallen back into place. She watched him running around, asking for the King’s attention; she loved seeing how the King gave him back his love. When she caught glimpses of their affection, she smiled to herself in contentment, knowing how well the Prince loved her lord. The King needed aid after the Queen had left. Her lord was devastated for too long, and there was nothing she could do to amend it – except the little Prince, and Almawen loved him for this, also. Oh, how she loved them! She loved them so much, as much as she feared the bright light inside their eyes and their angry screaming. Even when she didn’t want to see, hidden behind her humid walls, her ears learned the ugly things they said, hurting each other and hurting her, too.

As soon as she grew into a young woman, she was taken as one of Indis’ private handmaidens, just like Mother, because Laríel had asked the new Queen, and now Almawen couldn’t say no. She wanted to please the white swan, yes, but she needed more to be close to the family, _her_ family. She needed to peek into lord Finwë’s gray eyes and see the love. She needed to look at brilliant Fëanáro and see him thriving. She just needed to be there, for she couldn’t bear the thought of being anywhere else.

And although Queen Indis took Almawen into her care, she never wasted a glance to the mouse-handmaiden. Almawen was there but wasn’t. Nobody paid attention to her ordinary features, her dull brown hair and her pale-sick skin; she was but a skinny little creature who could hide in the shadows as if she was a part of them, too frail to do anything else but braid the Queen’s hair with gold and mithril strings. Nobody saw her when she was in the room – which she considered a blessing, because then she could watch the King live his life with his new wife and his vivid little boy. From the corner in the shadows, and her little mice holes on the stones, she watched everything with wide eyes, very much pleased to just watch, thank you very much. 

She was especially afraid of the white swan looming around the corridors, with her tall figure and icy presence, always snapping at the menials. That’s when Almawen recoiled even further to her place in the shadows. Queen Indis was so, so beautiful, and so, so cold it made Almawen feel terrified of ever been caught by those blue-glassed eyes! So she cowed back, taking her distance from the family just enough until someone decided to see her, and the next word snapped in her back like a whip.

But then, _he_ came. 

That beautiful baby, with eyes so blue it seemed a whole sky lived inside them. She watched from the distance how beautiful and adorable he was. She had to be near him; it was irresistible! So she invented new hiding places, places from where she could watch those blue eyes without ever been seen. The palace was so immense that Almawen’s presence was easily concealed. Luckily for her, the building grew over the years, with new adjoining rooms constructed next to the main ones. There were new storage and waiting rooms, halls, stairs that led into other chambers, connecting one another, and left entirely alone at her disposal. Almawen ran her fingers on the walls and murmured her thanks to whoever built that fortress, taking such good care of her.

She created her own castles in-between the walls, adorning it with toys from childhood, and then with the little treasures she gathered from the gardens (colorful leaves, shiny stones, flowers hung on the walls to dry); later, small gifts the Queen bestowed her when she decided to see her: a strip of lace, a handkerchief, pieces of silver strings for her hair and silken ribbons. All of them had once adorned the Queen’s hair, and Almawen thanked her lady wordlessly.

She never resented her lady’s gifts, for she never learned to crave for more. She had everything she wanted watching her beloved family, for they were more her family than Mother and Father, who have abandoned her. And yet she never felt lonely, even though no one ever saw her. And so Almawen’s life was spent between her chores for the Queen and her watchful eye of the King’s life. Not for once did she ever consider this an ugly or wrong thing. It was natural. Her love flew so freely towards them she couldn’t even begin to form the idea this was reproachable. And from her secret abide inside the walls, she loved them with all her heart.

With her growing years, so did the boys grew. And oh, how Prince Nolofinwë was beautiful! Everyone had only eyes for Prince Fëanáro, and yes, he was charming, but Prince Nolofinwë was like a glorious morning of light and warmth, his white smile the main reason she could breathe every day! She was so, so happy to be around him, even if he wasn’t allowed to play with her. Prince Nolofinwë grew up to be the most handsome boy she had ever seen. He never spared her more than two glances, but she didn’t care. But in those rare, precious moments when he did, she would feel her soul flying to reach the blues of the sky that were nothing, nothing compared to her Prince’s eyes.

Until one day, one glorious day, Almawen was in the garden, throwing rocks out in the air and trying to catch them with one hand – the more rocks she threw, the harder it was to catch them at the same time – when Prince Nolofinwë came running down the path and tripped on her crouching figure. She was so small not even her yellow-bright dress made her stand out. The Prince kicked her and, if he wasn’t such an agile boy – how quick and witty and handsome he was! – he would have flown to the ground.

She didn’t care when the look in the Prince’s eyes declared he mistook her for a rock, and didn’t expect a girl to stand in front of him. He frowned, and she also didn’t mind when he showed clear signs never to have seen her before. He had, many times, but she was used by now to never been seen. She was a fable little thing, but couldn’t help smiling from ear to ear when Prince Nolofinwë stood in front of her like that, and actually spent more than one second staring at her.

“I am sorry, have I hurt you?”

Oh, Valar, he talked to her! He asked her a question, a real, proper, polite _question_! And he cared, he might not have seen her then, but he saw her now, and he _cared_! Almawen’s smile deepened and, even if it didn’t make her rickety face more pretty, she couldn’t do anything but grin until her cheeks hurt.

“Never, my Prince!”

“What is your name?”

“Al-Almawen, my lord,” she mumbled, unable to contain the flush that painted her cheeks and ears red.

“Well met, Almawen,” he smiled politely.

She gave a bow, expecting him to find her gracious and courteous, and when he gave her the only gift she would praise above anything else, a smile, she thought she would burst with happiness. That white-teethed perfect smile of his, that shone brighter than the pearls in her lady’s necklace, and it was for her! She could have died right at that moment and be thankful for it. She didn’t care Prince Nolofinwë’s only reply was a nod, because it accompanied that smile, and there was nothing else she could’ve asked for in her life.

For her utmost surprise, after that day, Prince Nolofinwë started _seeing_ her. He would glance when she passed, head bowed, and nod at her, as if recognizing her, respecting her presence! Oh, wasn’t he the most blessed, perfect creature in the world? The Valar could say whatever they wanted, but his smile was the entire Blessed Realm itself! She would explode in joy every time they crossed in the vast corridors. Almawen would never cast one single eye-sided glance towards him, for she could watch him in full whenever she wanted. 

Because her most secret of places led exactly into Prince Nolofinwë’s chambers. It was but a small spot inside her walls, and she wasn’t able to see the wholeness of his room, but only a scrap of it was enough. Once or twice, she’d seen him without his clothes, and she thought she would faint with the lack of air that struck her lungs. He was so beautiful she couldn’t understand how the light of the Trees didn’t bow at his feet and ask permission to shine on his skin.

Even if in her dreams she curled up alongside his body – just as she had once seen the Queen rest her head in the King’s shoulder, hold hands, touch faces and exchange noisy, wet kisses. Almawen knew she would never marry him (and she snorted every time at the ridiculousness, but irresistible, dream); her Prince was unachievable, way above her reach, even higher than the roof of the sky. One day, Laríel had said both Princes would marry beautiful Princesses, and they would have beautiful children of their own – and if Laríel said so, it must be true, for the maid also loved the royal family very much.

It came a day when Prince Fëanáro returned from his famous work in the city, and Almawen was especially pleased to see the three remaining men of her life reunited under one roof. She watched as Prince Fëanáro gifted something precious to his brother (she never once heard him call Nolofinwë half of anything), how they hugged and laughed with each other, but also the strife between Prince Fëanáro and the King, and it saddened her heart. And then she heard, clear as water crystals, Prince Nolofinwë promising he would marry if he had to and hope, without any logic, kindled inside her heart. She knew it was too much to expect Prince Nolofinwë would ever pay attention to her, a servant girl; her parents were no one and nothing inside the King’s Court, but she dreamed anyway. A fool’s dream, and she knew it and cared naught.

She watched as naughty Prince Nolofinwë stole another bottle of wine from his father’s reserve, and he comforted his brother, who was so sad it broke Almawen’s heart. She wished she could hold him as a mother and rock him until he stopped crying. She couldn’t, of course, because Prince Fëanáro didn’t even know she existed – but she didn’t care, because she loved them all so much! She watched, through a little crack of Prince Fëanáro’s chamber, how they drank the whole bottle and dropped almost dead in bed.

Their legs were all she could see and, satisfied that the Princes would find comfort in each other that night, she returned to her safe-spot at Prince Nolofinwë’s chamber. She was used by now to spend so much time inside-walls, listening, and day-dreaming, she almost forgot she had a bed in Laríel’s room. It was much later when his door slamming brought her to his presence. She peeked, just a quick look on his handsome face before she went back to her chamber. And then she saw something that froze her body in shock, sending waves of heat through her entire belly. Prince Nolofinwë was standing at the door, almost facing her crack on the wall, with his… _thing_ in his hands, moving it up and down, deliciously hypnotizing, panting, moaning softly, a little frown in his concentrated brow, and then bliss. His gasp of pleasure, palpable as the walls she had been sinking her nails into, the wetness in her underpants, and the cream that spilled from his length, pearly and milky, made Almawen wish she was there to clean him with her tongue.

She decided that day she must look in his dreamy-blue eyes and tell him she loved him. She never expected to hear it back – how could he? He knew she existed, that had to suffice. She loved _him_ , and that was it. The love spilled from her chest like soap foam from a bathtub, and she decided she was going to be pretty, confide him her heart and live happily, because he would know he was loved from every corner of the palace, even from the ones he didn’t even know existed.

The next day, Almawen tinged her lips with blackberry juice and put on her best dress, the deep blue that matched his eyes. Queen Indis had gifted it for her Coming of Age – _how had she known?_ She asked herself in wonder. She couldn’t find a better occasion than this. She picked up flowers from the garden and adorned her brown, bleak hair, making it look a little less wild and a little more noble than it was. Mother used to be Queen Míriel’s best friend, after all! That must count for something.

She watched as Prince Nolofinwë darted from his chamber like an arrow, and she ran to intercept him in the garden before he arrived wherever he was going (certainly his brother’s room). She posed herself in front of him and melted into his gaze when he saw her, really, really saw her, with her tinged lips and flower crown. 

***

Nolofinwë woke up with a knock on his door. He opened his eyes and was forced out abruptly of a dream (his fingers traveled through all of his brother’s lean body, learning its shape and size with his fingertips, feeling Fëanáro’s burning gaze on him). It took him some minutes to come to his senses and realize it was just a dream, real though it might have felt. He rubbed his eyes and spoke, his voice coming harsh and husky with the scent of the lingering alcohol.

“Yes?”

The door opened only enough for a head to peek in. Laríel’s rosy, plump cheeks smiled down at him, seeing his tousled hair and sleepy face.

“Prince Nolofinwë, aren’t you up already?” She scolded. Nolofinwë had to chuckle. The maid just couldn’t help it.

“I’m getting up now, if that’s what you wish, dear Laríel.”

“Oh, if this were about what I wished it wouldn’t be a problem. Now don’t even get me started with your nonsense and hurry, child! Your mother will be furious!”

“My mother…?” He frowned, reclining on his arms and pulling himself up the sheets to sit down. The Queen was always furious at him for some reason or another. He then remembered something about having something to do, but couldn’t get his mind to work on what. The alcohol began whirling his brain again.

“Don’t tell me you have forgotten about your commitment today!” Laríel’s worried voice came with her raised brows.

Commitment? What in the bloody hells was she talk-

Oh. That. With a pang in his chest and dilated pupils, Nolofinwë remembered a conversation he had with his mother just a day before Fëanáro came back to the palace. But that was before his big brother’s arrival swept away all other thoughts from his mind. Being in his company, for as long as he could, was the only thing that mattered. Now recalling it, he had indeed promised his mother he would accompany her to Ilmarin and visit their Vanyarin family. It was probably her last ride before childbirth, and he promised he’d indulge her.

He jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom as fast as his hangover limbs could carry him. He was glad his stomach didn’t threaten to give out just yet, but his head was pulsating with an intense headache. The last thing he needed today was a reprimand from anyone, especially his mother.

When Nolofinwë was ready, he braided his raven hair the way his mother liked – very sober, no adornments, simple and chaste. He didn’t like pulling his hair back like this, but his mother wouldn’t have it any other way to see their _perfect, pious family._ At this thought, his stomach grunted, and he sat down, waiting until the wave of sickness was conquered. He stood up again, still looking pale and a little green, but went to find his mother.

She would probably be expecting him in the yard, horses ready and impatience sitting in her tongue, ready to lash out. She was even more borderline with everyone since the pregnancy, and Nolofinwë sought solitude from her as much as he could. Let Father deal with this. But first, he went to see his brother. Nolofinwë needed to explain, talk to him, tell him it was a misunderstanding and make him understand that whatever happened was nothing, _nothing_ , and would, could never change their friendship!

He walked through the corridors that led to Fëanáro’s chamber, heart pounding in his chest like a bird in a cage, unveiling behind his fogged eyes the moments they had shared in the eve. His hands trembled a little at the thought of what they’d shared-No. They hadn’t shared anything! Nolofinwë had _stolen_ a kiss. Was it a kiss, though? Oh, Valar, stop it! He closed his eyes for a second, and, when he opened them, a girl stood on his way.

He halted abruptly, one second not too late before clashing with her. It was the servant girl who always followed him with her brown eyes. Almawen, it was. Good. He remembered her name. It would be impolite and very little princely to have forgotten the name of a servant who was always trailing behind Laríel and, in fact, was his mother’s handmaiden. He halted to stare at the girl, wondering about this unexpected interruption. Almawen bowed and smiled. Nolofinwë tilted his head, not fully understanding the display in front of him. 

The girl had arranged flowers in her head, her lips colored with something that reached his nose as the smell of berries, and he trailed his eyes on her for one second to see she was well dressed – for the first time in her life, it seemed. She looked nice, but Nolofinwë didn’t understand what the special occasion was. His eyes lifted back to meet hers, and he saw her cheeks flush. Almawen bit her lips and bowed her head as if this moment of staring was too much for her.

Nolofinwë’s gaze trailed over her shoulders to the corridor that led to his brother’s chambers, impatience growing in his belly like poison. He needed to ask Fëanáro how he fared, ask him something, anything, just to see his reaction. He needed to look into his eyes and see that there was no anger, nor rejection or disgust. He _needed_ to know. But the girl stood there mutely, barring his way. He opened his mouth to say something and dismiss her when her hand came slowly from where it hid behind her back.

She held a single red rose she had picked from the garden and delivered to him, without a word, still not able to hold his gaze. Nolofinwë blinked several times before he could understand what happened. He let the air in his lungs out with a chuckle and a sigh. He was flattered. It was the first time someone had shown him any sign of infatuation, and he didn’t quite know what to do. It didn’t matter it came from a servant girl, any display of love should be cherished, even if unrequited. He also didn’t want to break the poor girl’s heart, so he put on the best smile he could muster.

“Thank you, Almawen.”

Oh, poor girl! If he could see her feet’ toes, they would also be blushing. She swooned, almost collapsing with joy. He held her elbow to avoid her from falling. He laughed with his nose and helped her straighten her back. She still couldn’t meet his eyes, but Nolofinwë waited. If she wanted to say something, now was the time. He lowered his head so he could find her gaze and press her into declaring herself – the quicker she admitted it, the easier he could (delicately) refuse it.

“I… I–forgive me, m-my lord, I just th-thought it was pretty like you.”

He laughed, and at that sound, she snapped her head up like a hound picking up a scent. She didn’t know how his whole body managed to utter beauty like golden velvet. But he needed to put distance between them, lest she was misled to believe something would ever happen. He composed his posture and gathered all the will of a Prince to his answer.

“It is a beautiful gesture, and kind of you to think of me. I won’t forget your years of loyal service in Finwë’s house. You have been my mother’s handmaiden since I was born, and I hope you fill your life with joy inside our palace.” His voice was soft but confident, and he let a smile curl in his lips, the ones he had seen Finwë bestow upon so many times with the kindness of a king.

The girl beamed with his answer, and, as if giving Nolofinwë the response he needed, she bowed, showing him the top of her head. He was still smiling at her like a benevolent ruler when he heard loud voices in the yard called after him: his mother. He gave a cheeky smile to the servant girl and spun on his heels, trying to block all the feelings racing inside his mind. He had to put all the mess with his brother aside. He couldn’t afford to show up before his mother with _these_ emotions stamped on his face.


	16. One wrong step takes us miles away

Fëanáro woke from a dreamless sleep; Laurelin’s beams peeked from the blackout and hit him in the face. He didn’t realize he had slept in, full-clothed, an arm covering his head in a protective gesture, as if he wanted to keep the nightmares at bay. They hadn’t disturbed him, but that didn’t prevent the humongous headache that threatened to splinter his brain in two. His stomach burned with emptiness scorched over with alcohol, but that wasn’t the only reason his entrails churned. He was in his chambers alone, and the shape of Nolofinwë’s body was still molded on the bed beside him, the lavender scent of his hair clung on the covert.

Fëanáro covered his eyes and exhaled noisily. He had no idea what the hells he was going to do. He could pretend it had never happened, none of it, and he would call it a wise attitude. He hated lies, but he would gladly swallow a whole bucket of glass-shard lies if it would prevent him from seeing contempt in his brother’s face at a wrong placed confession. Yes, he hated lies, but right now, he hated himself much more.

Nevertheless, he needed to see Nolofinwë, talk to him. He needed to _know_ if… if… No. He couldn’t think about it. It didn’t matter (didn’t it?) they had kissed (did they?). This was his _brother (_ half-brother), for Varda’s sake! What was wrong with him? _No_ , he would not go down that path again. He would not see scorn in his brother’s face for admitting… 

He needed to _talk_ to Nolofinwë, and that was a part of the problem. He honestly didn’t know how his body would react. Had he known? Had he _felt_ the kiss? Had it… had it really been a kiss? His stomach fluttered like the flight of a hundred butterflies, and he had to crush the thought relentlessly. He needed to see and be able to look into Nolofinwë’s eyes without feeling lost and found all at once inside those sea-diamond jewels.

He got up, a keening pain pressing in his temples, and went for a bath. His body didn’t respond well to the hangover, and he felt dizzy and unstable. He allowed himself a moment of alleged peace inside the bathtub, filled with cold water, that seemed to calm his nerves. But this wouldn’t be the end of it. The thought of the previous night assaulted him mercilessly, bringing forth both the joy of feeling Nolofinwë’s lips and the desperation of his reaction. Regardless of the cold tune his mind pretended to play, his body recalled the sweet taste of his brother’s mouth and answered enthusiastically.

Fëanáro was compelled to relieve himself of the tormenting ache but felt he was incapable of acting with Nolofinwë’s face behind his closed eyelids. But the more he thought about forgetting him, the brighter the image of his brother appeared in his mind’s eye. _No! Stop this!_ He cursed under his breath. He couldn’t succumb now to the urgent desire lest he wouldn’t be able to do anything else. However his brother tasted, however beautiful he looked, Fëanáro needed to withhold. He pressed the heel of his hand on his hardened length and bit a moan of pleasure. _Damned Valar!_ He needed it now as he needed it last night.

He got out of the bath and felt the protests of his stomach once more. His iron-hard length screamed for release while the rest of it shivered with alcohol sickness, making it difficult to think. He felt, deep in his heart, no reason why he should deny himself pleasure if it helped to steady his mind. At last, he gave in, and the explosion of heat was enhanced by the immediate, terrible guilt. He hated himself for not being able to strip Nolofinwë from his thoughts, and even more so when his (half) brother’s face was the very fuel that candled his imagination. 

Unable to bear another moment of that agonizing uncertainty, Fëanáro dressed and stormed out of his room, going straight to Nolofinwë’s chambers. He knocked and entered, but it was empty. His bed was untouched, and Fëanáro wondered where his brother might have gone so early - and with a hangover on top. Unconsciously he traced Nolofinwë’s steps through the palace and found himself returning to his own chambers. His heart skipped a beat as soon as he spotted his brother’s silhouette. Nolofinwë, kissed by the sun, looked beautiful, spine straight as an arrow.

Only then Fëanáro realized his brother was talking to someone. It was a girl, who Fëanáro faintly recalled roaming around the palace. He didn’t know her, but she wouldn’t be talking to Nolofinwë if she wasn’t noble-born. Nolofinwë had a red rose in his hand and smiled sweetly at the girl, who, in turn, was all reverent with an adoring look on her face. And then it struck him like lightning, his feet suddenly had no ground to stand on.

Frozen, limbs heavy as if made of lead, he thought his heart would forget how to go on. Impossible! Would Nolofinwë really do it? No, if… if he had felt that kiss, then this was the negation of it all! _No_ , he shook his head in disbelief, the tears stuck in his throat. _No!_ Fëanáro didn’t realize he was running, he wasn’t seeing anything nor where he was going. Nolofinwë was so focused on his courting that he didn’t even sense his brother’s approach.

No, that was too much… too much. How could his brother do this to him? The brutal rejection sank in his bones like the thorns of the rose in Nolofinwë’s hand. Fëanáro couldn’t think, couldn’t see. He ran to the stables like a blind man and didn’t heed the questions from the servants. He mounted his stallion and galloped away from the palace, away from the only person in the world he could never be apart.

His mind was blotted out, his eyes fogged, and he didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the neck of the tunic moist and plastered against his collarbone. He rode blindly until he reached a familiar house. To his absolute surprise, it wasn’t Mahtan’s. He didn’t recognize it until his old Master came into the porch with a smile, which quickly faded whence Fëanáro dismounted.

“Fëanáro, what-”

Rúmil was interrupted by a body crashed against his chest, slim arms around his neck, and a fiery kiss that unbalanced him. Underneath his touch, Fëanáro shivered like a wild horse. Startled, Rúmil gently broke the kiss and searched for a sign in those perilous diamond eyes. _Why? Why is he doing this?_ But they were under the scrutiny of curious eyes, and his porch wasn’t the place to answer them. Fëanáro stared back at him blindly, like a man outside his own body. With a crease between his brows, Rúmil passed an arm around Fëanáro’s waist and guided him inside. He waved his servants away.

Rúmil led Fëanáro into his private chamber and sat him down on a divan placed under big, draped windows. He poured two goblets of wine, and when he turned, Fëanáro was staring at the floor mutely, not looking like himself. His face was still strikingly beautiful as a marble statue molded with stardust; his eyes still bore the unmistakable reddish evidence of his anguish, but Rúmil knew better than to push him into a talk.

Both sipped the wine silently, and he waited. Fëanáro stood up abruptly and left the goblet bouncing dangerously on the softness of the divan to cross the space between them. Rúmil cocked his head inquisitively, but something in Fëanáro’s gait made his heart pound violently inside his chest. He strode and stood in front of the lambengolmor. They were of height now, and Fëanáro’s stale eyes were locked with his.

His eyes traveled through Rúmil’s face, looking, looking, looking for something, he didn’t know what it was – but it wasn’t there. Rúmil felt his stomach sinking. Fëanáro’s gaze lingered on his mouth, and his breath sucked in with its intensity, finally understanding. He shouldn’t. It was not safe, not with him. Suddenly, he also realized _they_ weren’t prying on his mind. They never allowed anything that resembled a tryst happen, why would they now? What has changed?

Fëanáro crossed the short distance that separated them, and their chests touched lightly. Rúmil’s breath was quicker, and the proximity of that mouth, almost touching his, was intoxicating. He couldn’t believe Fëanáro really wanted this! Rúmil’s own eyes were drawn to that mouth, the curve of sultry lips, but when his eyes snapped back to Fëanáro’s, his heart jolted. His stale eyes were shrouded as if by a mist. They shone palely, not resembling the starbright light that surpassed Telperion’s. It wasn’t _he_ Fëanáro was seeing, but someone else.

They were breathing on each other’s mouths, and Rúmil wanted, oh, he wanted so much! The wisest of them all, Manwë had called him, and this wasn’t wise. Yet this man was staring at his mouth like he wanted to devour him, and that alone was undoing whatever convictions he had formed or was forced to believe during these long, cold years of forced chastity. Rúmil was incapable of moving, of taking action, but he longed for, he _needed_ Fëanáro to kiss him! 

As if listening to his internal pleas, the Prince touched Rúmil’s lips with a touch of moths. Rúmil’s heart raced, and he opened his mouth, ready to give whatever Fëanáro asked of him. This time, Rúmil avidly plundered the hot cave with his tongue tasting wine and salty tears; he gasped when Fëanáro’s fingers traced the bulge heating in his leggings. With a gasp, he looked back into those diamond-like eyes and hesitated. The light inside was still dulled, far, far away. The Prince looked in his direction, but not at him. He wasn’t seeing Rúmil, but past him. His mind was elsewhere. 

No, it shouldn’t be like this, for either of them. Fëanáro was not himself. Rúmil wasn’t sure, but this may be his first sexual encounter – although knowing how Fëanáro’s soul blazed, Rúmil knew it was likely he had some experience. And to him… this was not the way to honor the one who was... gone. The kiss was hot and eager, but Rúmil broke it, cupping the Prince’s face and trying to see past the fog in his eyes. Fëanáro jerked his head forward, but Rúmil was able to avoid the kiss, pushing him gently by the shoulders.

“No, Fëanáro,” he managed to say breathlessly.

The Prince stopped in mid-action motionless, arms lax beside his body. Rúmil touched his cheek gently, frowning at the blank expression on his face. Whatever this was, it had deeply hurt him.

“Fëanáro… Curufinwë, look at me. _Look at me_!” He urged, holding the Prince’s head with both hands and staring intently inside his eyes, pushing away the mist with his mind’s force.

Slowly, but unmistakably, Fëanáro’s eyes began to shimmer, his pupils regained focus, and Rúmil saw the light sparkle behind them again. He sighed, releasing him, and waiting for the reaction of guilt that would undoubtedly come. The Master took his hand and led him back to the divan, setting his head on a pillow and stroking his hair protectively. He would wait until Fëanáro looked at him and saw _him_ , and not… a lover? He was sure, now, this was not about Finwë, as he thought at first. Silent tears were streaking down Fëanáro’s temple to the cushion, and Rúmil waited for him to sleep before letting his mind relax and wander into the past, remembering, as he so few times was allowed to…

***

Fëanáro opened his eyes. It was past noon, and Rúmil sat at his feet on the divan, staring outside the window. He didn’t notice Fëanáro was awake until he moved to sit up, and Rúmil’s attention snapped back to him.

“How do you feel?” the loremaster asked gently.

Fëanáro felt the lump of unshed tears in his throat. He looked at his old Master, and there was not one shred of shame or guilt in his face. But his voice couldn’t answer. His mind was still numb, the realization that his stupid, reckless actions led Nolofinwë straight to the arms of another was nearly unbearable. Of course, it was his own fault, and he had to swallow all that sourness alone.

The lambengolmor gave him the goblet with mulled wine. Fëanáro sipped and looked attentively at Rúmil, who couldn’t say if the Prince was questioning his previous behavior. It wasn’t likely, not proud Fëanáro – he was totally capable of self-criticism, even if most of the time he chose not to. One thing was obvious: by now, Rúmil had made his intentions to the Prince very clear: he had wanted him, still wanted him. But he would never take the initiative. It was up to Fëanáro to decide.

“Have you ever loved?” He asked in a hushed tone. Rúmil silently applauded him for the courage of asking such a thing.

“Why yes, Fëanáro, of course! I love many people, your father and yourself included.”

“No, not… that.” He shook his head, searching for the term and fearing what voicing it would mean. “In love. Have you ever been _in love_?”

“I…” Startled, Rúmil realized his mind was open from _its_ constant influence, _their_ influence. He could speak freely and knew, like few times in his life in Valinor, he wouldn’t be interrupted. For that reason only, Rúmil would not lie. “Yes. Once.”

“How deeply?” The anxious face stared at him intently. Rúmil held the gaze for a moment, but then looked away at his garden, unable to spill his heart under the scrutiny of those bright diamond eyes.

“Is there any other way to love? What is love if not the deepest wound of the soul, healed only by the one you are in love with?” Rúmil answered quietly after some time.

“No!” Fëanáro sprang up, speaking with passion. “No, it’s not _supposed_ to be a wound!”

“What is it supposed to be, then?” The conversation almost felt like a lesson about theories and feelings that couldn’t touch them, as distant as analyzing the political organizations of the first Quendi.

Fëanáro’s gaze flickered over his face and answered immediately: “Companionship. When two people share the same physical and mental stimulus and exchange thoughts.”

“Is that all?” He proceeded with the ‘class.’ 

“It’s also giving without the expectation of receiving something back,” Fëanáro challenged.

“Is it, though?” The old Master murmured. “Should we be so selfless as to give ourselves and never feel the satisfaction of being loved in return? What kind of love is that?”

Fëanáro observed him without an answer, for Rúmil spoke the truth. At first, he thought he could give Nolofinwë all the love in his heart, but how long would it take for it to turn into resentment? He felt it already, not being able to even speaking of it with his half-brother. Could he live like that? Giving, giving, giving, without ever receiving back, forever unrequited. No.

“That is what love shouldn’t be, but so many times is,” Rúmil continued with sorrow in his voice. “The truth of love is not selflessness, Fëanáro, it is not the loss of what you are to give yourself entirely to the person you love, but your enhancement!” He spoke with intensity and sparkled eyes full of memory. “Each person feels love differently, but I suppose you have an idea of an archetypical love, in which one doesn’t have to prove anything because the boundaries between two people are already set and stable. And yet love is more, much more than that, more than any theory can encompass…” He finished lowering his voice again.

“Doesn’t the one who loves prove oneself all the time by actions and words? Love is loyalty!” Fëanáro replied with conviction. Nolofinwë was loyal to him, but would he always be?

“Those who love are loyal, no doubt, even if ultimately that loyalty is the reason of our own downfall,” Rúmil stood up and walked towards Fëanáro, loving the discussion, the freedom of mind. “However, one can have loyalty without being in love. Don’t you believe that a love that binds you with loyalty is also restraining?” He said gently to the anxious man pacing the room, who turned to him with an inquisitive frown. 

“I don’t believe that,” Fëanáro responded vehemently. “Loyalty is not an exchangeable good. If you love, you are loyal, whether you are loved back or not. A binding made out of love and loyalty can never be harmful.”

“You are right, it _should never_ be, but frequently is. Love is supposed to be freely given, and loyalty presumes a price to be paid with duty, in which nothing is for free,” Rúmil searched the Prince’s face, trying to understand the underlying reason behind the discussion. “If someone gives you love for the sake of loyalty alone, they are selling their hearts for too high a price. You will have them, but at what cost for you, and for them? Can we be so selfish as to disregard others’ feelings and hopes?”

“No, the binding... when two people are bound by love, their souls sing together, don’t they?”

“They do,” Rúmil nodded, finally understanding. Fëanáro was in love and sought to bind the one he loved without fully comprehending the meaning of such procedures - he would call it that, for it was the most complicated and delicate of operations - or how they were enacted. Two young, immature and underdeveloped souls could never bind one another, for they would lack strength and willpower. It involved many variables, and lots of things could go wrong, binding someone too close (or not close enough) to the other’s soul. It struck Rúmil, then, that it was indeed a confession, and he felt both grateful and apprehensive for the Prince. “But see, Fëanáro, love in its truest form brings forth the best in us, what is most sacred to our hearts and it is so _right_ we shouldn’t feel the need for a soulbond.” His tone was kind, paternal, like the one he often adopted when he was with the Prince.

“What is it like? A soulbond?” Fëanáro inquired, head cocked and eyes filled with wonder.

“Beautiful. Terrifying. Profound. Dangerous. It is both freedom and enthrallment. It is the deepest and most magnificent thing in all Arda,” his voice dropped again to a whisper, filled with memories and longing and loss. “You share emotional responsibilities, admitting you need to give in order to receive. To concede in order to be accepted by the other, who must also do the same thing. None comes out of it unscathed or unchanged, for not to change would be the death of love.”

Fëanáro frowned and said bewildered: “But if you must give in to be accepted… then it’s not love! It’s the buying and purchasing of favors!”

“No,” Rúmil was staring at the floor, wondering how could a mind that had never experienced the fulfillment of love fully grasp its enormity. “When we are in love, we are willing to yield because you know they will do the same for you,” Rúmil muttered, and Fëanáro almost missed the last sentence. “Perhaps you feel your love is not like this now, but you must cultivate it, Fëanáro, water it like your most cherished plant, and you will see it grow into the most beautiful thing in the world.”

The Prince’s face burned with heat, and he turned away, incapable of looking into Rúmil’s eyes and telling the truth of his heart. “No, I-I don’t know if this is how I feel…”

“Then perhaps your misplacing love with desire, or lust.”

“No, it’s-it’s not just _that_ ,” he grumbled slowly. “It is love, I know it. My heart knows it. But… how would I differ love from lust? How can I _know_?”

Rúmil smiled at the Prince’s doubts. It was clear, now, he lusted but never acted on it. “When you lust for someone, you don’t really need that person. It’s just sex,” and with this word, he felt color creeping on his face involuntarily, from his neck to the tip of his ears. “You satisfy the needs of your body, and both are free to do it again or pursue other interests.”

Fëanáro turned to him again with a scornful look. “In Valinor, people don’t _pursue interests_ , Rúmil, you know this perfectly! There is no such thing as lusting, not here. There is marriage and, with luck, love. Am I wrong?”

“No, regrettably.”

“I wish we were able to pursue the desires of our hearts freely.” He turned his head again, frowning, the stunning profile against the light covered his face with shadows and made him look more marble-like than ever before.

“We did once. In Cuiviénen.” Rúmil announced. Fëanáro’s entire attitude changed at once. He snapped his head back at Rúmil, eyes shining vividly as if on fire.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Rúmil almost laughed and allowed a small smile to curl in his lips. “I will tell you what I can, for this is not a secret, but neither it is something I have shared before,” he replied, lowering both eyes and voice. He breathed deeply, searching for the bravery he once possessed. “I didn’t wake up alone. I was accompanied, held hands with my soul mate. I knew it when I looked inside his eyes,” he hesitated, taking several long breaths at the voicing of his best-kept secret since the formation of the Valarin society. Fëanáro was unabashed, and he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ take it back. “We loved each other deeply. It was a feeling greater than physical or mental bonds. As you said, our souls sang as one, weaving the same notes of the Song, and our bodies spoke the same language.”

“What happened to him?”

“I... don’t know,” he choked on the last word. He couldn’t speak of it. Not now, not ever, not even after so long. His heart still wept for his lost soulbond, and it felt terribly wrong to talk of him with the uncertainty surrounding his death (was he dead?). He had to believe Nurwë was still alive somehow, somewhere. Luckily, Fëanáro was sensitive enough not to push him further. Rúmil saw empathy bleeding out those star-bright eyes and swallowed the tears back. 

The Prince waited until Rúmil pulled himself back together and asked, after some time: “Why is it a sin to love one the same gender?”

“Because…” The lambengolmor paused. They might seem absent from his mind now, but Rúmil was wiser than that. He knew they were close - and listening carefully.

“Was there more freedom?”

Rúmil’s silence was the confirmation the Prince needed. He let the information sink in. Fëanáro was a brilliant man and would soon find out they were living in a very tight cage, and Rúmil wasn’t sure the extent of his freedom of thought. Nevertheless, he was certain they wouldn’t let him go far on that subject.

“I want you to show me,” Fëanáro said simply after a long pause. Rúmil titled his head, and the realization came. His brows shot up, searching the Prince’s face, looking for the fog in his eyes that confounded his mind and made him do and think things he wasn’t really feeling. But there was none. Fëanáro looked more confident and decided than Rúmil had ever seen him, beautiful like a flaming star. But things weren’t so simple as to give in to desire.

“I don’t think we – I – should.”

“I need to know.”

“That will probably make you feel more confused, Fëanáro,” Rúmil whispered breathlessly. There was so much want in his voice it almost hurt, but the Prince disagreed. His old Master couldn’t know how much he needed this confirmation. If he was going to marry Nerdanel - because he was! What else was left for him? - then he wouldn’t lie to her.

Therefore Fëanáro crossed the distance between them with one stride, this time without any mental impediment. At a loss for words, eyes fixed on those features carved into manhood, Rúmil let the goblet roll from his hands, allowing Fëanáro to kiss him full on the mouth. With a fear of a thousand years, he returned it, earnestly seeking the other’ soft tongue, heart fluttering. 

Fëanáro applied the same technique he had used with Nerdanel, tasting wine and cinnamon. Oh, this was different! - and so good! Whether it was because Rúmil responded with the starvation of his soul, or because of his own lack of emotional defenses, he couldn’t say. It was intense and heated. Rúmil touched the Prince’s tunic with trembling fingers, pulling him deeper, plundering Fëanáro’s mouth like a libation to his wounds, licking away all the pain inflicted on him day after day since his depart from Cuiviénen. He felt long fingers cupping his sex and broke the kiss, surprised.

“Show me.” It was not a request. This was, too, a part of the lesson.

The Prince’s eyes shone like two stars, gaze shimmering with lust. Desire uncoiled from the bottom of Rúmil’s abdomen, and he felt the furnace that emanated from the Prince’s body. Fëanáro unclasped his leggings with daft hands, and Rúmil yanked them away. His erection glistened against his flesh, and Fëanáro stared at it, hungry, hands pressing languidly on his own hardness. Rúmil’s shaft throbbed with anticipation as he watched the Prince. He unlaced Fëanáro’s breeches with a tremor that had nothing to do with anxiety and appreciated the perfect form of the Crown Prince: his muscular build, broad shoulders, long legs, and hair that resembled a wild black lion’s mane. Perilously beautiful.

Rúmil pulled Fëanáro by his slim waist and taught him the pleasure of two male bodies grinding, rubbing, moaning at the silken touch of their skins. Fëanáro grabbed a handful of Rúmil’s silver hair forcing the kiss to break and pushed him down to the ground. In complete surrender, Rúmil knelt and eagerly took Fëanáro in his mouth. Head clutched, Rúmil showed him how to give pleasure skillfully, and heard the shuddering gasp with a satisfied hum. The taste of Fëanáro’s musk throbbing against his tongue was intoxicating. He let the Prince gently fuck him, milking him until the point of almost no return.

Rúmil felt the tremor of Fëanáro’s legs, the approximation of orgasm, and rose to kiss him. The Prince’s body pulsated with desire and guided him to the bed. Fëanáro was obviously dominant, and Rúmil sprawled for his Prince as an offering. Fëanáro climbed on top of him, and, as Rúmil gently roamed over his sides and hips, he explored the other’s body with touch and tongue, searching for the secrets spots and observing each reaction. He soon found out the ones that gave more pleasure – the tip of the ear, the junction of neck and shoulder, the nipples – as if this was one more tutoring. It was. Teaching was what Rúmil was made for, whatever it was, and he had done this before, long ago.

Fëanáro moved downwards to return the pleasuring – to prove he had learned, Rúmil knew. And _by Eru_ , he had! An involuntary cry escaped his lips, and before he could reach climax, Fëanáro stopped, again watching all the reactions. Rúmil was unprepared, so he raised on his elbows and quickly retrieved a vial of scented oil from his night-table. Without a word, he coated Fëanáro’s fingers with it. Wide-eyed and lustful, the Prince stretched him, seeing the work of his hands and the arching of Rúmil’s back like a tensed bow, mouth open, gasping with the sudden peak of pleasure. He spread his legs wider and, with a swift movement, wanton, guided Fëanáro inside him. Pain, bliss, agony, ecstasy – oh, how much he missed it! Fëanáro was a fast learner in this as in anything else. 

Once inside, after spending the first seconds adjusting to the marvel of that discovery, Fëanáro wasn’t able to be moderate in this, as he wasn’t with anything in his life. He was burning, and Rúmil offered him the remedy to cool off his soul. It was electric and potent as lightning striking a tree.

Fëanáro’s fire touched Rúmil to the core. He was left spent and scorched, inside and out, his soul a-blazed with the touch of Fëanáro’s spirit. The Prince regathered himself quickly, dressed, and thanked Rúmil for the lesson with a wry smile that didn’t reflect at all the brilliance of his eyes. Rúmil was pleased to have given him some comfort, however small, and even more so for being the Prince’s confidante. But underneath Fëanáro’s urgent demand was a wound that sex – or, at least, sex with him – wouldn’t be able to mitigate.

“You helped me today, Rúmil, in more ways than one. I hope we can talk more about this in the future.” He threw his old Master a flashing smile that made the Tree light shrink with envy. It lasted but one second and was hastily replaced by the shadow of his wound. Rúmil didn’t say anything, respecting Fëanáro’s distance. He didn’t know if he was serious about talking, or if that meant he would like another sexual encounter. If it was the case, he would be more than happy to oblige. Fëanáro turned his back and left a spent and sated Rúmil behind.


	17. Bitter years

Nolofinwë walked quietly in the garden, hands clasped behind his back. Now that no one was watching, he allowed his head to bow a little following his gaze, something he had forcibly unlearned to do. He could hear the merry sound of children and was glad that Laríel was always so happy to be around the energetic younglings, never giving her a moments’ peace. He smiled to himself. It was a beautiful autumn day, chilly, but with a bright blue sky shining atop their heads painted with white clouds here and there.

He stopped at his favorite spot: a bench under a cherry tree bare now of flowers but loaded with orange and yellow leaves that, once in a while, feel noiselessly to the ground. He sat and closed his eyes, feeling the cool breeze gently whip strands of his hair, the soft sound of leaves being carried by the wind and the scent of rain that would undoubtedly fall before the day was over.

Every year, on this particular date, he fell prey to a melancholic mood, and his family already knew better than to disturb him. He liked to think and remember. Remember how his life was before he completely changed it and wonder how it could have been had he been able to keep Fëanáro by his side. It was the day he had marked as his personal crucible, in which he used his time to relive his most endearing – or most dreadful – memories. Today, he couldn’t keep out the memories from the day _after_ , when he realized he had, of his own free will, offered his heart in sacrifice.

Yes, he remembered it too well…

***

When Nolofinwë got back from his trip to Ilmarin, Fëanáro was long gone. The servants claimed to have seen him running away from the palace, blind to everything and everyone. Nolofinwë felt his mouth dry, and his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. Ran away. Fëanáro had run away from him. Disgust. Contempt. Nolofinwë closed his eyes, desperately trying to find some hope to cling to. Maybe… maybe it was not that at all. There was a chance, however remote, that Fëanáro had another stupendous fight with their father and had left in haste and anger. It could be, couldn’t it? After all, they had had one of those when Fëanáro had just come back to them. He breathed shakily. Yes, it could be. Oh, please, let it be that!

When inquired of his brother’s sudden departure, however, Finwë showed to be equally surprised, if only because Nolofinwë wasn’t aware. So far, he had believed the fight they had had that previous evening had been enough to make Fëanáro want to run away from his father, but to know that he had also left his dear brother in the dark made Finwë rethink the situation. He didn’t voice his concerns, though, for Nolofinwë was dumbstruck and clearly upset by his brother’s outburst.

Fear crept onto Nolofinwë’s spine like a cold hand, gripping his thoughts from the base of his skull and pulling them under a black, bottomless vortex of guilt, shame, and absolute horror that he had caused his brother to flee _from him_. He went back to his chamber, legs shaking, barely containing his tears. He sat down on his bed and covered his face with his hands, weeping bitterly. How would he be able to face his brother ever again after that shameful display? His despair that Fëanáro remembered everything and had cut Nolofinwë off from his life was overwhelming; that night, he cried until an exhausted sleep overtook him.

The next day, Nolofinwë wished he could have stayed in bed, but that would raise too many suspicions and, worst, too many questions. So he forced himself to bathe, dress and eat with his parents, who tried coaxing him in telling what had happened between Fëanáro and him. Nolofinwë somehow managed to avert the insisting interrogation, but he couldn’t look them in the eyes – and how would he? How could he explain his parents, Laríel, _anyone_ that what had driven Fëanáro away from their lives was himself and his reckless, stupid love? Nevertheless, even though he tried, soon, the entire household was aware the two brothers have quarreled.

The sense of desperation grew when a week after that, Finwë (not him) received an announcement (not an invitation) saying Fëanáro and Nerdanel had married in secret and were already building their new home in Formenos. Oh, the look in his father’s eyes! It was heartbreaking to see him so utterly disappointed and hurt by being abruptly, without any reasonable explanations, being cut off from Fëanáro’s life as well. It was the first time Nolofinwë had felt anything else than grief, enraged by his brother’s attitude. How could Fëanáro have inflicted this pain on their father purposefully? Fëanáro was disgusted with _him_ , after all. What had their father done to deserve this aggressive treatment? It couldn’t possibly be because of that disagreement over marriage. Yes, they had fought, but wasn’t he married now?

Nolofinwë overheard his parents saying that the marriage might have been forced upon them by an unwanted pregnancy – but, if it was the case, Father would have heard more than just words from Mahtan, and there had been none. The only conclusion to be left with is that Fëanáro was yelling his independence like a rebellious child, stating without words he didn’t need their presence in his life anymore – and that was reason enough to sympathize with how miserable their father looked. It didn’t matter the discussion they’ve had: Finwë was also cast out.

Nolofinwë could have cut half his heart, but the fact that he _knew_ why Fëanáro had done all those things in a rush was enough to make him… change. At first, he became more circumspect, severe even. Fewer and fewer things gave him real pleasure, and his laugh became something so rare that those who manage to bring smiles to their beautiful Prince’s lips felt themselves in the Crown’s good favors. The first year was the worst for, deprived of what (who) gave him joy, Nolofinwë dove in his studies and responsibilities only because there was nothing left to do. He needed to keep his mind occupied, and his father was much in need of whatever help his son could give him.

Soon he learned that his cold and joyless smiles disturbed his parents greatly, so he learned how to put on a mask to at least pretend he was content. He wasn’t. Without Fëanáro beside him, he could never be happy, would never be whole. But he enacted the part of a diligent student and made his mother proud – even if Finwë could never understand the rift that had taken his boy away from him (his fault, the wound in his father’s eyes was his fault, his dolefulness, _his_ fault). Finwë would never look on Nolofinwë to mitigate the pain caused by Fëanáro’s absence. It didn’t matter how much he missed Fëanáro (every single moment of his life), he couldn’t merely forgive him for the deliberate pain he had meted out on their father.

As it was to be expected, the news spread like wildfire, and in a matter of days, all Aman was well informed of Fëanáro’s impetuous behavior. The cruel talking was merciless: they tattled about how the House of Finwë had diminished by allowing such a poor match, how Fëanáro had turned his back to his family for this good-for-nothing girl, how she had bewitched the Crown Prince (who was she, anyway, to have caught Fëanáro’s heart so monstrously?) and how Mahtan would profit from it. They spoke of how the marriage might have been, how it certainly was – for the few servants who attended couldn’t keep it quiet – and how it _should_ have been, with a higher-ranking suitor, daughter of this or that nobleman. Sometimes it was tremendously tiresome to know everyone gossiped about _everything_ , but there was nothing Nolofinwë could do.

It also became common knowledge that Fëanáro and Nerdanel hadn’t invited anyone except Mahtan and their smiths, which in itself was an absolute outrage to Tirion’s conventional society. The court lashed out on Finwë, who was forced to explain the painful truth: he hadn’t been there, either. And that alone was enough to quiet his courtesans, who at least held their tongues in front of him. Behind his back, however, they kept talking about Fëanáro’s unpredictable temperament, so dangerous to those who once had been the mighty Tatiar, and how unsuitable he was to be their Crown Prince. It took Finwë, and Nolofinwë as well, to calm their people down and reassure that nothing had changed. Fëanáro could live his life away from court if he wished, but he would always be Crown Prince. Of course, nobody voiced their certainties: they still had two strong figures to hold things securely.

Then came the news that Nerdanel was pregnant with their first child. Dreadful (but wonderful, because Nolofinwë was going to be an uncle!) and yet not wholly unexpected – Nolofinwë had pushed his brother in the ginger girl’s arms, hadn’t he? It didn’t hurt less, though. It was in the light of this news Finwë took up the courage to visit Fëanáro and meet his first grandson. He had asked if Nolofinwë would accompany him, but he told his father Fëanáro wouldn’t be pleased to see him. Finwë fell silent with that confession, sorrowful for the way his sons suddenly estranged themselves when once they had been good friends.

The trip did his father good. Finwë came back as another person entirely, relaxed, even happy, perhaps because, despite all, Fëanáro had made one good thing and reassured their father of his unending love for him. Finwë couldn’t bear to see what he thought growing resentment between the brothers but said nothing about it. After that day, the King made more frequent trips to Formenos but bore back few news: Fëanáro was always busy in the forges with some project, building his home, taking care of his new family – Nelyafinwë was red-haired like his mother and a precious little thing – and the craftsmen living and working under his supervision.

Those years passed in an undistinguished blur. Sometimes Nolofinwë caught glimpses of news that reached him through the gossip of the servants and Finwë, of Fëanáro’s new family, how fast his firstborn was growing, how beautiful was his manor, and, more pointedly, how inexplicably wondrous his work was. “You need to see it to understand,” he heard two noblemen speaking once. 

After ten years of not a single spoken word, Nolofinwë couldn’t help but react to that news without feeling his heart beating wistfully by the simple mention of Fëanáro’s name. He recognized the man his best friend was when people mentioned the beauty of his smile, the blazing flashing of his eyes, his thoughtfulness, the enormity of his genius. Everyone said how much Fëanáro loved his son and was a strong leader to his people, who, in turn, was faithful to him. This wasn’t a surprise at all. Nolofinwë always knew this strength was within his brother. Fëanáro had always been an outstanding orator, and to realize he had won the love and support of his own household brought what little comfort it could to Nolofinwë’s heart.

It seemed absurd the amount of time that had passed. So many things had happened! (And yet all of them were dulled because his brother wasn’t there to share them with him). Nolofinwë’s sister was born, and she was a loud, demanding child who left his parents often weary. After Irimë came Findis, for Mother’s delight – now she had two little girls to spoil, which was something she admitted having craved. Lastly came Arafinwë, a sweet, laughing boy. But none of them could bring Finwë the same joy as his visits to his firstborn.

It was then Indis decided she had enough children and would bear no more. The royal family was mildly happy, if extremely busy; his brothers giggled and ran around the palace, driving everyone, especially Laríel, completely crazy. He, however, couldn’t have felt emptier. He didn’t resent the children’s presence, but they were too small to engage in the type of conversation Nolofinwë yearned for – or to fill the gap his brother had left in his heart.

Fëanáro was gone from Tirion for nearly twenty years – which seemed to have stretched into a thousand! – when they finally saw each other again in Nolofinwë’s Coming of Age party. It was a spectacle put up to the court, one which he was not a bit enthusiastic to partake. His younger brothers were there, but not the one who still owned his heart, even after so long. Since his brother had left him, his life had been punctuated by few pleasures, and being constantly surrounded by his father’s noblemen was not one of them – even if he learned, little by little, to conceal it. By now, these political gatherings only meant that one of them was trying to push his daughter into Nolofinwë’s lap. He didn’t feel readier now than he had felt twenty years ago, even knowing that his duties demanded him to.

No one was expecting Fëanáro to come, certainly not Nolofinwë, who had given up the chance to perhaps reconcile with his brother. So when Nolofinwë saw him walking down the lane into the assembled pavilion, his heart jolted so violently against his ribcage he gasped, spilling some of his wine on the table. His wide-eyed expression was somehow blotted by the fact that Fëanáro was alone. A part of Nolofinwë’s brain told him with a sneer that, of course, he couldn’t bring his family to stay close to his _depraved_ , sinful brother! But the other part told him that surely, after all these years and with a family of his own, he wouldn’t care about the reckless actions of his younger brother?

Lost in those thoughts, he missed the fact that, along with his own gasp, so did everyone else. Because now Fëanáro’s name was the most well-earned gossip of Tirion. Except for his faithful household and family, nobody saw him; the life of the secluded elf was frequently on the mouths of the Noldor, as much as his brilliant works which sparkled all over Aman, from the Vanyar’s sacred halls to the pearly buildings of Alqualondë.

It seemed impossible to Nolofinwë, but Valar, Fëanáro looked even more stunning! His saunter was confident, and everything about him was astonishing to the eyes. From the beautiful clothes he was wearing, the smoothness of his black hair shining with a light that turned it almost blue, to the exquisite jewelry that adorned his brows, fingers, ears, and arms. He never looked more like the Crown Prince than that day, and the whole gathering watched him with awed expressions. When he reached the ground where the tents were disposed, he flashed Finwë a smile, and the room seemed to contract around it like blackness around a supernova. Nolofinwë’s heart leaped inside his chest like a wild stallion wondering if he would be granted such a gift. It would be enough, for no work of his hands could compare to the perfection of his white-teethed mouth.

Fëanáro greeted their father with a warm hug and answered a few questions about why his family wasn’t with him; Nolofinwë heard his voice, mellow and resonant, and was swept up by a range of emotions. Helpless, he felt his mind sway with drunkness precisely the same way he had twenty years ago when he had felt his brother’s lips – Nolofinwë didn’t call it a kiss anymore. Fëanáro chuckled at something Finwë said, and that sound alone boomed through Nolofinwë’s scalp and drew a straight path to his loins, much to his embarrassment and rage at his body’s betrayal.

He tried controlling it, but with Fëanáro in plain sight like that, fully grown and dangerously beautiful, it was impossible. It was only when Fëanáro had turned to greet Indis politely and Rúmil with a grip on his wrist that Nolofinwë was able to discern the news he had half-heard: Nerdanel was pregnant again, and young Nelyafinwë was left at home to watch over her while his father was away. Nolofinwë regretted Fëanáro’s child hadn’t come because he wished to know his nephew.

As if he had listened to his brother’s intimate desires, Fëanáro turned his blazing gaze towards him, and Nolofinwë felt his blood running like light, hot lava. Fëanáro wasn’t smiling anymore. He greeted Nolofinwë with an unfathomable stare, closed behind his diamond-seared light. Nolofinwë’s breath got stuck in his lungs, and he could only stare back, unable to speak. Fëanáro slowly walked up to where Nolofinwë was standing – when had he stood up? – and drew a beautifully carved wooden box from under his red velvet cloak.

Fëanáro got closer to his brother until they were face to face; Nolofinwë felt his whole body responding as if called. Nolofinwë’s gaze rested for a moment on the brooch pinned to Fëanáro’s shoulder, and his jaw dropped in surprise. The design he had made for Fëanáro’s Coming of Age became a beautiful jewel that shone and reflected the colors of the red, golden clothes. Nolofinwë snapped his eyes back to Fëanáro’s, but they remained arrogantly aloof. It was an immense honor, but Nolofinwë didn’t find the courage to voice it – and he cursed his own cowardice.

Fëanáro held equally the box in his hands and Nolofinwë’s glare in his eyes. Nolofinwë’s dry mouth swallowed what little saliva he had, breathing heavily at the tense air that suddenly surrounded them. And yet, somehow, while they were staring at each other, the world around him seemed to vanish; nothing else mattered, no one else existed. Slowly Fëanáro pushed the box inside his stiff hands, and Nolofinwë couldn’t tear his eyes from his brother’s spellbinding features. 

“Alassëa nosta, Nolofinwë,” Fëanáro said slowly in his rumbling tone. 

Nolofinwë shivered but frowned at the coldness of the words. But then… wasn’t this what he deserved? He felt his cheeks and ears burning with the shame of that thought, and even more so for looking so vulnerable under his brother’s intent gaze. A thousand emotions flickered over Fëanáro’s eyes, but Nolofinwë wasn’t looking at him and missed them. He decided it was impolite to hold a gift for so long without opening it and giving his proper thanks.

He opened the lid of the box, and a blue light immediately flashed on his face. There was a beautifully designed circlet, representing his majority, with intricate and thin mithril strands crisscrossed, set with three gout-shaped blue diamonds. The two at the corners smaller, and the one at the center big as an egg. Yet the circlet was not heavy, the stones cut to such perfection they looked almost translucent, and inside them shone the light of the stars. Something about the grandiosity of that idea seemed impossible, but there it was. Obviously his brother would have done it. Nolofinwë almost looked up to say some remark that would have resembled their friendship of old, but his breath hitched when he lifted the circlet, for another gift appeared.

It was a brooch, very much like Fëanáro’s own, but completely different. A six-pointed silver and blue star, made with hundreds of minuscule pieces of perfectly cut blue sapphires, greeted the light of her bigger cousin, and Nolofinwë’s eyes were the fuel to their brightness. He didn’t have to ask. He knew this was his insignia. Nolofinwë swallowed forcefully a lump that climbed up his throat and seared it with unshed tears. He also missed the marveled exclamations of those near him.

“Thank you!” Nolofinwë breathed still enspelled by the majesty of the jewels. As soon as he heard this, Fëanáro stepped down the dais, not waiting to see how Finwë came to appreciate the gifts and pin the brooch in his brother’s trembling shoulder.

Nolofinwë wanted to run after him and hug him, kiss him, slap him, and demand an explanation for all that. But he couldn’t. He was soon surrounded by people wanting a closer look at what the infamous most talented elf of Valinor could accomplish – and they wondered at the beauty of his craft, spreading words of awe that carried through the pavilion.

With his peripheral vision, Nolofinwë watched as Rúmil intercepted Fëanáro for an amicable talk, and his attention was regrettably taken away from his brother’s straight, broad back to Ingwë, who now put a kind hand on his shoulder.

“With gifts like those and eyes like yours, Prince Nolofinwë, soon you will have not only my daughter swooning after you but all the maidens in the realm!”

Nolofinwë laughed, being careful not to show in his voice how mistaken the High King was. He quickly glanced at his brother, standing only a few paces away, and he hoped, still hoped, he hadn’t listened to those words. And with good reason he feared, for with a sense of shock, was that not a faint smile on his brother’s lips? Nolofinwë went stiff, feeling as a bead of sweat ran down his spine, adding to his pile of hateful shame. What was his brother playing at, trying to humiliate him so?

It was the truth, Fëanáro eyed him briefly when he heard his brother clear laughter like pouring rain. When he realized he was being watched with what looked like fury in Nolofinwë’s eyes, he hid the smile and ran away – again. As he saw Fëanáro leave the hall like a gust of a whirlwind, Finwë stepped down behind him, calling him back. His brother halted, turned to his father with another binding smile, and they exchanged undiscernible words. Fëanáro shook his head at something their father said and kissed his cheek reassuringly.

Nolofinwë, who watched the scene without taking his eyes off Fëanáro, saw how his brother’s eyes flickered in his direction for a second. Something shimmered behind them, which Nolofinwë couldn’t quite grasp, but then Fëanáro blinked, and a second later was walking away without looking back. Nolofinwë set his jaw in resolve. He wouldn’t run after his brother’s heels like a trained pup, not when everyone was watching. What was the meaning of all that? Wasn’t he gifted with such precious jewelry made by his talented hands? That had to mean something.

After that day, Nolofinwë pondered that maybe Fëanáro didn’t hate him (that much) after all. There had been something, even if it was mere politeness, that gave Nolofinwë an unquenchable, foolish sparkle of hope – although it wasn’t sufficient to shake off the thought that anything he did would ever gain his brother’s favor back. Nolofinwë considered writing him a letter, but what on Arda would he write? He could thank him again for the gifts, but there was nothing else, truly, to be said.

And yet, the cold treatment Fëanáro had bestowed him, his curt words and mocking smile forced Nolofinwë to conclude that only Finwë could have talked Fëanáro into gifting him and showing up at the feast. He thought again about the brooch, his wonderfully crafted insignia. That was the real mystery, but then… everything surrounding his brother was a mystery these days. He had even scratched a few drafts of a letter telling him of his undying love, but it sounded ridiculously romantic as if he was a besotted maiden. He was no maiden, but…

No, no, romanticism! He would never be brave enough to show Fëanáro anything resembling his feelings for him – wasn’t this that had driven him away in the first place? _No, don’t be stupid, Nolofinwë, that won’t do_ , he said to himself a dozen times, folding the sheet of discarded parchment and pulling a new one from the pile, only to repeat the process a dozen times more. In the end, there was no letter. All his words failed him, and his attempts to make peace were left on the blots of ink staining the many wasted pages inside a drawer. He never had dared to throw them away, either.

***

Nolofinwë sighed sorrowfully, eyes still closed, feeling the smell of autumn around him. _There was nothing to be done_ , he thought grimly. That was why, merely a week after the feast, Nolofinwë had agreed to court Anairë. The news was well received by the court and the whole Noldorin society – despite her Vanyarin ascendance, she was the daughter of the High King of the Eldar, and no one reprimanded him for aiming so high. It was befitted. How ironic that the same girl that was offered first to Fëanáro would now end up in _his_ bed.

Anairë was white and innocent as a lily bud, and he had already noted how she cast her lovely turquoise-blue eyes upon him. Ingwë pledged that she was in love with the Prince, but Nolofinwë was quite sure the princess didn’t know the first thing about love. They got married anyhow, with half Aman in attendance, a feast so abundant Nolofinwë felt overwhelmed at all the new faces that came to greet him – strong and important alliances were made that day. That was what the farce was for, right? To secure the throne, the Crown… even though the heir was as far away from the event (and from him) as possible.

With a heavy heart, Nolofinwë had sent his brother the invitation but received nothing in return. He half expected to hear at least an apology, but there was nothing. In the end, he didn’t expect Fëanáro to show up, and this time he indeed didn’t. Nerdanel was still taking care of their newborn, and her condition was delicate, for the labor had been long and weary, it was said. That was the first time, but not the last, Fëanáro had put his new family before the old one. Nolofinwë couldn’t resent him, not really – especially not after Findekáno was born.

The joy of seeing his firstborn in his arms, sleeping peacefully, was nothing like he had envisaged. He inhaled the sweet, baby smell of his black hair (how could a baby have so much of it? It was so adorable and so messy he couldn’t help laughing every time he looked upon his son). Findekáno was precious to him since, not even clean of blood, he opened his big blue eyes and locked his gaze with his father. Nolofinwë had felt love like he had never before, something profound and unwavering as the sea.

Everything changed with his first child. His life was suddenly not so empty anymore – and he had to harden his heart and enhance his mask, for Findekáno was sensitive and reacted ill any time Nolofinwë was distressed. He picked up the mood and would wail indefinitely until his father was able to soothe his own heart to calm the baby next. It was on these moments he knew he had to be stronger than he ever was. His son needed him to. And hiding his feelings deep inside his heart was rewarded with an ever-smiling and loving son. It was his small voice he heard now, his child-talk reaching out to him through the bushes and trees.

He smiled fondly, wishing he could dismiss the gloomy mood and swipe him up, as if he was still a small babe, and let the balm that was his scent and smile nurture him. A loud, happy shriek that was totally different, and yet still his, reached his ears.

“Come on, Turvo! Rochallor is the fastest horse alive! He will take us to ride through the stars!” The reedy voice grew suddenly closer, so Nolofinwë opened his eyes. From the bushes nearby, a breathless, flushed Findekáno appeared holding a white wooden horse in one hand and his baby brother on the other. Turukáno was equally flushed, hair disheveled, and his green tunic covered with mud. When their eyes rested upon their father, the two boys went abruptly silent, afraid of the approach.

Nolofinwë had promised himself more than once that he wouldn’t let melancholy snatch away moments he could spend with his family. But every year, he failed, retreating to his quiet meditation and hating to be disturbed, for it was harder to shake the gloomy thoughts away. His attention was thrown continuously back from where it should be to the two boys from his past. His sons looked at him attentively, perhaps seeing beyond his now much-settled austere mask. Findekáno, rightly, cocked his head, sensing the grief in his father’s heart.

He approached the bench step by step, aware that one wrong move would make Nolofinwë stand up and retreat even further in the garden. When he didn’t, Findekáno reached out a hand and touched his father’s, clasped on his lap. The snow inside Nolofinwë’s guts melted. He smiled, scooping up the two children, one in each arm, and holding them close in a grip so tight it made them complain, making little annoyed noises.

“Atto, don’t squeeze!”

“Yes, atto, don’sueez!”

Nolofinwë laughed, then, and the two boys laughed with him, feeling the deep vibration bubbling inside his chest. He still held them close and kissed their brows.

“What have you been up to?” he asked, holding both their little heads under his chin.

“We were playing with Rochallor,” Findekáno answered vividly now he had his father’s full attention. “We were about to find the Eldar before Oromë, and we would be the first to bring him the news!”

Nolofinwë allowed himself another soft laugh for their imagination. “I think it’s time all of us go back inside and clean ourselves off the leaves and the mud,” he looked down at them. “Who is up for a cup of hot, honeyed milk?”

“Me, atto, me!” cried Turukáno loudly, raising his little arm eagerly.

“Can we have apple cake, too?” Findekáno’s eyes were wide with anticipation. It was only their father who let them have that treat before supper.

Nolofinwë just laughed again and kissed the top of Findekáno’s head. “Let’s see what your mother has to say about that, shall we?”

Findekáno’s face fell. “Mamil will not let us, she never does!”

“If you behave well, eat your dinner and bathe, perhaps I can convince her,” Nolofinwë winked, tickling their ribs. The children wiggled and giggled in his lap. Their mirth was contagious, and his own laughter boomed above them as he stood up and stretched both his hands. They clasped him tightly and were led back into the palace. He stopped by the kitchen and order a servant to bring a bottle of the winter Teleri harvest and a tray of apple cake to his chambers.

“My lord…” the servant pursed his lips. “Does it have to be the winter harvest?”

Nolofinwë frowned at the question. “Why, yes, Nilwel.” He didn’t have to remember the servant which day was it. They all knew, by now, there came a single day in the year where the High Prince would only drink the Teleri harvest – the last bottle he had shared with Fëanáro. If they knew the reason, they kept it to themselves. “What is wrong?”

The servant looked down, looking for words. “The order hasn’t arrived yet. Perhaps something delayed the wares on its way here.”

Nolofinwë exhaled noisily. To the servant, it would sound only as an annoyance for the inconvenience. But Nolofinwë knew his father indulged him less and less in that particular treat. Perhaps he had forgotten to order. Perhaps he knew Nolofinwë’s reason. It didn’t matter. He would have to take charge of this, as well. Another one of the small tasks Finwë was deliberately passing on to him. Nolofinwë sighed through his nose. Without the wine (and his brother, always his brother), this night wouldn’t be the same. The children looked up at him expectantly, Findekáno squeezed his hand very softly, picking up on his sadness as usual. He straightened his face and smiled at the young man, the mask climbing back as if it was his second skin.

“Fetch the red Noldorin, then, please.” It wasn’t the same. The red Noldorin was less stronger and sweeter than the Teleri harvest, but it would have to do.

They went up the stairs and found Anairë sitting in her chair, sowing a white tunic. She liked to take care of the children’s tore clothes, and he praised her for her diligence. She was a good mother. Anairë smiled when the three entered through the door. Her swollen belly popped out from her dress each week more. _It won’t be much longer now,_ he thought. There was a lot of excited screaming and merriment while the two boys recounted the tales of Rochallor, and she listened with a quiet smile on her lips.

“Go on, off with the two of you, little piglets!” He shoved them gently into the bathroom with a slight push in their backs, still smiling. He filled the bathtub, undressed them, and waited until they were in before returning to his chamber. Nolofinwë always let them play alone for a couple of minutes. He liked listening to their imaginations running freely, without the adults’ interruption, before resuming the bath.

Anairë swiped her lashes and stared up at him, adoration brimming inside her crystal-blue eyes. It always unsettled him a little, for he never gave her any reason for such worship, on the contrary. In fact, if she knew how much he held back, she would no doubt abandon him without a second thought. It was comforting to feel he had found in her a respectful partner, but it was not something that would ever turn his heart from where it belonged.

She could never suspect that when they laid together, Nolofinwë was always thinking of someone else. Of Fëanáro. He tried concealing it, but it was undeniable that his desire took a lot of time to kindle, and never under her eager touches or lips. He often had to go to the bathroom to prepare, he said. But she had never had any other lover. Therefore it consoled him she would never know this was not normal behavior for men.

He made himself smile, hoping it wouldn’t look like a grimace. Anairë bit her lips and stared down at the embroidery again, always disappointed for the reaction she would never find mirrored in him. There was no love in his eyes, and she knew it. Nolofinwë shifted on his feet uncomfortably and opened his mouth to say some soft words, but was blissfully interrupted by a knock on the door, to which he gladly bid enter. It was Almawen. The girl – he would always see her as the shy girl that gifted him a flower – carried a tray in one hand and a bottle of wine on the other, barely able to hold it all together. She was so clumsy Nolofinwë sometimes wondered how his father had kept her along all those years.

He took the tray off her hands, and she smiled at him, bowing her head in veneration, and giving him that sheepish smile that he knew so well. He smiled back at her, making her blush from head to toes, as she always did. Her eyes flickered to Anairë, and she quickly dropped the smile and promptly closed the door behind her. Nolofinwë knew, without looking back, that his wife was staring angrily at his father’s odd servant. She never got used to the girl’s adoration. Perhaps it reminded Anairë too much of her own.

Nolofinwë sighed silently, allowing the irritation to pass through him. He didn’t want to discuss this again, not in front of the children. He deliberately avoided his wife, giving her his back and pouring a generous goblet of wine.

“I wonder why does that servant makes you smile so,” she said, not exactly trying to conceal her annoyance. Nolofinwë winced like he always did. He took a long mouthful and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

“I pity her.” His voice was soft, but when he turned to face his wife, his eyes were crisp as ice.

“Pity? You truly expect me to believe that, don’t you?” she said shakily, her voice a tone higher than usual.

“I don’t know why you shouldn’t, or why you care so much. She is but a servant,” he felt tired, awfully tired. All he wanted was to be left alone. He sipped again, wishing the wine would wash away his feelings, his thoughts, his desires, everything.

“Because!” she wailed. “I wonder when you will bestow me even _on_ _e_ of the smiles you lay upon her!” Ah. There it was.

Nolofinwë barked a laugh, bitterly. “I can’t believe you are jealous of a servant!” There was no sign of amusement in his voice. “Please, Anairë, let’s not discuss this. Not today.”

“Why not today? Why is today, all these days, so important to you? Why can’t you share this with me as your lawful wife?”

Now she was pleading. _Oh, Eru, spare me_ , he thought irritated – but immediately regretted it. If his wife felt unloved, it was partly his fault. Nolofinwë closed his eyes again and sighed. The chamber was suddenly silent, no noise came from the bathroom.

“I am not going to discuss this with you again, Anairë,” he replied, trying to keep his voice calm, but felt how flat it sounded. “It is naught but one day of pondering, you shouldn’t let yourself be troubled. It is not good for the baby.” The last argument silenced her, for he was right, and she knew it.

Without another word or glance back, he entered the bathroom and found the two boys inside the bathtub clinging to each other, blue eyes wet and wide open. His face softened when he saw them, and at the same time, their tears fell, as if waiting for permission to admit their unintentional eavesdrop. He felt his heart contract in pain, but smiled broadly and let his eyes sparkle with love for them. They immediately perceived it and breathed in relief. Nolofinwë sat on the border of the tub and started telling them a story about Ulmo and the Teleri ships. If he couldn’t have their wine, his children would at least have a nice tale to sleep with.

Soon they were playing again with the water, their little stone-carved ship sailing like the one in the story, and again he felt grateful for the immeasurable joy they had brought into his life. But he resented his impetuous wife. It was not the first time the children heard their parents in an argument. Why did she have to bring this up in front of them? She knew they listened and how sensitive Findekáno was!

Again, as if feeling his thoughts, Findekáno looked up at him expectantly, and he smiled back, reassuringly. On nights like this, he wouldn’t seek Arafinwë’s company, for it was not right to supplant one brother with the other in his heart – but who was to say Fëanáro still held _him_ in his heart? He shook off the thoughts again. No, today he would sleep under the stars, alone and quiet, like he needed. His wife would complain – but when didn’t she? Everything he did that put distance between them was more ammunition for her arguments, but he needed it. Today, of all days, he needed Fëanáro more than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> atto (Q) - daddy


	18. The decision part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 1: I was not satisfied with how this huge chapter was displayed - it was way too big for my liking - so I edited it and split into three parts. Nothing has changed in this one, only a few improvements. Thanks to Kalendeer for advising and helping me make this decision ^^

_Today_

Fëanáro spread the glass carefully inside the mold and took it to the heated oven behind him. He closed his eyes, listening, focusing. He whispered the words of Power like he had been taught but almost staggered. The memories of the previous day in Aulë’s forges flooded his mind, and he struggled briefly to suppress them with a hammering thought. No, he needed concentration to do this, or the glass would shatter even before it was ready. He’d seen it before with Maitimo. His son was distracted and, because of one sideway glance he had given Fëanáro, the glass exploded inside the oven, and molten shards flew everywhere, hitting the inner walls of the stove and his hand, giving him an ugly burnt.

He breathed slowly, once, twice, calming his mind, and whispered the words again, more intensely. This time he felt the Power flow through him, his hair, his mouth, and tongue, running all the way to his hands, to his fingertips holding the iron tongs. The connection was built, and he willed the glass with his thoughts, thinning it, making it almost look like water. Abruptly, Fëanáro snapped his eyes open: it was time.

He removed the mold quickly and coursed down a league of molten metals he had prepared previously: mercury, gold, mithril, and copper. The glass hissed, and Fëanáro put it again inside the oven. Wide-eyed and filled with the inexplicable joy of accomplishment, he smiled as he watched the glass shimmer, colorful rainbow specters flying around him, painting the whole forge with a shower of light.

Fëanáro withdrew the mold and saw that the glass was still glowing, reminding him of a grey river spotted from a distance. And this was just the beginning. He praised Nelyo and Káno for their help with the mathematical equations. They had spent so long discussing them that, when they finally reached a conclusion, Fëanáro knew it would work. Now he needed to wait until it was cold enough to be shaped.

He placed the mold carefully on the table over iron support that would prevent the stove-hot mold from burning the wood. Fëanáro sighed satisfyingly. Telperion’s light was high in the sky, and now would be a good time to sleep. But he didn’t feel like resting. His mind was restless with memories from the day before and the excitement about his new work. Instead, he walked to a bench, positioned under a big window on the other side of the forge, and poured himself a goblet of cold wine. He sat on the arm of the couch, looking out to the lawn bathed in silver light.

So much had happened the past week Fëanáro barely had time to process it. It had started when he overheard one of his smiths saying Nolofinwë’s new child was born, a girl. She would be almost the same age as Kurvo, born that previous summer. He had felt a pang of loss in his chest, knowing another of their children would never grow up together. It hurt, every single day of his life, it hurt. Oh, his sons were the light of his life, his everything, and without them, Fëanáro would undoubtedly have gone mad. But the love he had for his brother was built of a different matter.

It pained him almost physically to know this love could never be transmuted into love for his children. Yet, what right did he have to wish, even yearn, the love he bore his sons could replace the love he had lost so many years ago? What a selfish idiot he was. Fëanáro tasted blood on his mouth and realized he had been biting his lower lip. He shook his head as if he could shoo the thoughts away. More often than not, he experienced the sting of those unbearable memories assailing him and could do nothing but accept them. It was useless to fight.

Thus, Fëanáro shut his eyes and let the memories fill his mind, his heart, his senses. Behind his closed eyelids, he could see his brother’s beautiful face in his Coming of Age feast. Fëanáro had felt an ache in his core when their gazes locked for the first time after so long. Nolofinwë already had the face of a man settled on his dangerously handsome features, and Fëanáro savored the memory of his full mouth spread in a smile, his hair like black silk, his eyes, bluer and brighter. Everyone seemed oblivious that it was _him_ , and the flame of his eyes, that had ignited the light inside the gems. His gifts for Nolofinwë were nothing compared to the star-brightness of his blue eyes.

As expected, Fëanáro felt the familiar pang of guilt for not giving his children the love he so foolishly nurtured for his brother. He had been a careless, rash youth, unguarded of his own emotions, always running away from them. But then he steeled his will again. No, it had been for the best. He had told himself over the years that stepping aside from Nolofinwë’s life was the only thing he could have done, and now he couldn’t regret his decision. Fëanáro’s own speech was so convincing he actually started believing what he did was the right thing. And he would do it all again if he had to! 

Well, perhaps not the kiss. If he could turn back time and undo that which had disrupted his entire life, he would - even if he had to live without knowing the sweetness of his brother’s lips. In his mind, he replayed the scene and stopped himself, and Nolofinwë wasn’t frightened, wasn’t driven away. And maybe, if he restrained his desires and love for the rest of his days, then _maybe_ he and Nolofinwë would have grown in a friendship similar to what they had when they were smaller. His sons would grow up with their cousins, they could see each other every day, Nolofinwë would come to Formenos...

Fëanáro exhaled dismally, and his breath misted the window. No, it was like Rúmil had said that same night, in which Fëanáro had seduced him. The wish to love Nolofinwë and be loved in return, like he truly wanted, would eventually ruin their relationship. No, it was better this way, he told himself for the umpteenth time. Fëanáro lowered his head and stared inside the goblet, the wine sightly rippling in his tremulous grip. He had made peace (had he?) with the fact that distance between him and his brother was necessary, for his own sanity - even if it tore tiny chunks of his heart slowly, but inexorably. Would there be anything left in the end? He wondered.

Fëanáro’s thoughts took him back to the day he learned of Nolofinwë’s betrothal to Anairë. Oh yes, he remembered the disgust and outrage. So much so he hadn’t think twice and shattered to pieces the delicate ornament he had been working on. Another jewel for Nolofinwë. He was thinking about the way his brother had made him feel that day, on his feast, and the way he reacted to his gifts; Nolofinwë was so absurdly beautiful when he was breathless! 

And he was going to marry Anairë! That same lifeless, homely Vanyarian girl who had been almost shoved into his lap, he had thought with contempt. Fëanáro breathed out noisily a mirthless snort. He had been furious! Furious with his father for promoting such a match (but wasn’t she the daughter of the High King of the Elves?), mad with Nolofinwë for allowing being with someone so below him, and furious with himself, always himself, for letting his brother go. He decided, then, no one of his family would attend, out of pure spite. He remembered Nerdanel’s concerned look and Maitimo’s questioning gaze. 

His eldest was very perceptive and always seemed to know everything, but could he guess what was behind his father’s outburst? Fëanáro hoped not. Thinking about it now, there had been something on the edge of his son’s eyes that was... different. Something he didn’t recognize at the moment and let it rest; the rage against Nolofinwë’s laughable attempt at politics surpassing all reason. Poor girl. She certainly didn’t deserve his hate, but what could he do but hate the one who had irrevocably stolen his brother from him?

By then, Fëanáro couldn’t admit that his anger was not mere jealousy, but absolute fear. When his father had spoken of Anairë, he said the princess was utterly besotted with Nolofinwë. He had felt a confusing surge of jealousy and resentment at the outrageous possibility Anairë didn’t love him after all - because what could anyone do but love him? But mainly, he hated and dreaded Nolofinwë, for there were immense chances he also loved her back. That thought had driven him insane with a burning ire ending with the destruction of half the stash of jewelry Fëanáro had crafted exclusively for Nolofinwë, dreaming one day of seeing him use nothing else. A stupid, ridiculous fantasy, smashed to pieces alongside the trinkets. He felt the anger burning even now.

He mused that, if it wasn’t for Nelyafinwë’s blessed and timely birth, he would surely have succumbed to gloominess. Before his beloved Maitimo was born, Fëanáro had missed having someone close, like Nolofinwë had been, to share the experiences of life with. Some of the smiths, such as Wiamano and his son, Lindwë, were good companions. But it was only after Maitimo had grown to become a confident young man that Fëanáro discovered his firstborn was more than he could ever have hoped for. He missed his brother (terribly, every day), but he found in his son a true partner. 

Fëanáro was aware of the age gap between himself and Maitimo. He had barely been fifty when his first son was born. He was so indescribably happy since then, for he could never wish for better boys. All of them. And Maitimo so uncommonly intelligent it swelled his heart with pride. It wouldn’t be long, now, for him to finally come of age. Yes... Maitimo was a child no longer. But was Fëanáro open to tell him about Nolofinwë? Had the day come in which he would admit to his family the secret of his heart?

Again, the pang of guilt struck him. How could he ever think about these things? Maitimo was very much his own self, how could Fëanáro even compare Nolofinwë with his children? They were like water and oil, it was impossible to measure his love for one, or the others, in a scale. Selfish fool! It didn’t matter how much he loved his sons - so much it scared him - they would never be able to heal his wounds because it wasn’t for them to heal! None of his sons couldn’t substitute the place his brother had in his heart, and he blamed himself again for allowing it.

Fëanáro took another gulp of the wine. It seemed ludicrous now, looking back into his childhood, how afraid he had been of having a brother in the first place, terrified the new child would steal Finwë from him. He shook his head, incredulous of his own naivety. He had never thought that one day, he would fear to lose that child’s heart forever - if it wasn’t lost already, of course. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that. He couldn’t. He squeezed his eyes close and remembered Nolofinwë’s laugh, the bewildered look on his face when he saw the brooch with his new insignia...

If there was one good thing that had came out of that imbroglio was his first (and only) time with Rúmil. He could never regret that, for it was the only thing that had helped, still helped, the many nights his wife required him in bed – and Nerdanel was a demanding woman. Plus, Fëanáro frequently felt compelled to quench with her the fire fueled by what the images of his brother did to him. No wonder they had so many children! At first, he had struggled with the fact that, whenever he was hard and closed his eyes, he would think of Nolofinwë. He had learned, in time and under Rúmil’s guidance, there was nothing he could do to help it, and, more importantly, nothing to be ashamed of. 

Fëanáro hated himself a little more for lying to Nerdanel so profoundly, but her touches could barely entice him. Of course, she didn’t have to know what tricks her husband used to get excited: namely, that Fëanáro fantasized of doing to Nolofinwë the things he did to Rúmil - and much more, oh yes, so much more! Because it worked. It still worked, every time. In fact, she didn’t have to know _anything_ , not even he thought of another male. It would only make her suffer about something neither of them could control, and he had come at peace with that, at least. Besides, if the price for his desires – and the reproachable way he used his wife – was more beautiful and loving children, he would gladly pay it.

The lambengolmor had proven time and again to be a valuable friend. He and Fëanáro had had many exciting and enlightening discussions about the life of the Eldar before Valinor. It was true that sometimes Rúmil wasn’t able to say much; it was like he got caught up in memories, or his mind got suddenly clogged. In those cases, Fëanáro was forced to drop the subject and try another day again. But eventually, they had talked about everything they could concerning the complexities of love, the origins of desire, and the relationships between two (or more) people. Thankfully, Rúmil had made clear more than once, even if not explicitly, that the Quendi don't have control over their desires, as much as they can’t control if a child will be born a boy or a girl. 

_It is in our nature_ , he had said, and there was nothing the Valar could do because the Elves were not _their_ Children. To desire whom one does, not caring about social or cultural constructs and laws, it was the natural way of things. In their last conversation, before Nelyafinwë was born, Rúmil had hinted that even between closer ties of blood desire was natural. Fëanáro’s mind had reeled under the enormity of the notion. He had never as much suggested what he truly felt for Nolofinwë, but somehow Rúmil seemed to know. He was a man of sharp intelligence, after all. Rúmil the Wise, he was called. Fëanáro had never said a thing about the true nature of his appetites, and not only Rúmil never had a single word of reproach, but also seemed to support him – even if he didn’t have the courage to act upon it. 

Fëanáro had given it much thought and concluded that if it indeed was in their natures, then there was nothing to be ashamed of. There were but two things one could do: suppress said desires and suffer, or give in and live with a free conscience - even if it defied the Valar’s laws. The lambengolmor hadn’t used those exact words, of course, but the way his eyes sparkled when he very discreetly mentioned his soulmate, the one with whom he had woken… Fëanáro knew it for the truth. He also knew, at last, it was the Valar that were keeping them so tightly bound.

They were being suppressed and contained like wingless birds in too strong a cage. More hidebound by the year. In defiance, Fëanáro had decided to never hide anything from his children: not the liberty of love, nor how the human body worked, or how the Eldar lived today under laws that weren’t their own, made for them by deities who didn’t truly understand them. 

Oh, he wished, now, he hadn’t been so right! His chest still expanded with fury whenever he remembered why he had left Aulë’s forges the day before without a second glance and never to go back.

He emptied his goblet in one gulp and breathed slowly, trying to let the anger wash over him. Fëanáro smiled predatorily to the darkness, not a hint of amusement on his face. He would murder the Vala with his bare hands if he ever laid eyes on Aulë again.

***

_Yesterday_

Fëanáro banged the door of his study behind him. His rage was so intense he thought he would choke on it. He stared blankly at the window for a moment. The snow was falling softly, but he could see his own reflection, his dilated pupils shining wildly back at him, his hair disheveled from the riding, white flakes still dangling on it. He walked blindly and steadied his body against the desk. There was a jug of hot wine. Fëanáro’s hands trembled involuntarily when he poured the wine, spilling some on the map carefully spread on the table. He cursed. There were red blots on the parchment, and he tried soaking the liquid with his sleeve. His tunic absorbed most of the wetness, but the wine left a permanent stain on the paper. Námo’s balls!

 _Hum, but this part here is already faulty. The mountains spread a little wider to the left_ … Fëanáro would have to ask Turko’s help again to redraw it. The boy’s sight was keen as an eagle’s, the best in the whole family. His little hunter. No, focus, Fëanáro needed _focus_. He needed to remember every detail of what just happened. He nervously swiped back his black mane with one shaky hand, trying to put the loose strands back into the loose braids.

Feeling infuriated and helpless at once, he drained his goblet and whirled it against the wall. There was a clattering sound of metal on stone, and at the same time, the door to his study opened abruptly. Fëanáro turned on his heels and saw Maitimo, a concerned look on his face still holding the knob. His eyes ran over Fëanáro’s agitated features to the wine dripping from the table and then to the goblet rolling idly on the other side of the chamber.

“Atar, what happened?” The young man asked quietly after closing the door.

Maitimo now was as tall as he was, got closer to him and brushed his elbow gently. “I saw you arrive, and the servants said you had such a look on your face… And I can see it, too. Something troubles you. What happened?” The silver-mithril eyes swept over his face, searching and registering everything. It was good he was here. Fëanáro needed his son’s perceptive insight and better judgment.

“Your brothers?”

“Káno is helping Turko, and Moryo is outside with mother and Kurvo,” Maitimo clipped promptly. Fëanáro nodded at the reassurance they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“Good. Good. Sit. I need to speak to you.”

“Atar, you are scaring me,” Maitimo sat on the divan, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was common knowledge his father liked some theater, but this was not some feigned dramatization. Fëanáro was clearly out of himself.

Unexpectedly, however, his father tilted his head and laughed at Maitimo’s worried expression, trying to dissipate the frown he still bore and the heaviness of the air. At that wondrous sound, Maitimo couldn’t help but smile back. Yet the tenseness and ire in his father’s body reverberated through the walls in crimson waves, palpable like the music Macalaurë played.

“Don’t worry, Rusco,” Fëanáro said softly and sat beside him. “I'm all right, though I can’t tell you it is nothing.” At his son’s inquisitive gaze, Fëanáro continued: “I went to Aulë’s forges,” he said straight-faced, eyes closed, feeling the rage bubble inside his chest again like a living thing.

“Yes?” Maitimo still had an insistent frown between his perfect brows but caressed almost absent-mindedly his father’s arm with soothing movements; Fëanáro slowly felt his body relax under his firstborn’s touch. He inhaled deeply through the nose and opened his eyes, holding Maitimo’s starbright gaze inside his own.

“He tried to seduce me,” Fëanáro answered slowly.

Maitimo’s eyes widened in shock for a second, and then snickered indiscriminately. Fëanáro was taken aback by the reaction, but his son's easiness with the topic calmed him even more.

“Of course he did! Every elf in Aman is trying to seduce you,” Maitimo added mischievously, rubbing his thumb on the back of Fëanáro’s hand. Maitimo’s eyes flashed with something... was it defiance? Fëanáro reproached himself for not understanding what it was but pushed the thought away for now.

“I don’t know about that,” Fëanáro smiled broadly and shook his head one side to the other, touching his son’s wavy hair, “but that cunning bastard is not an elf.” His face was hard again, the anger still boiling his blood.

Maitimo sobered up and slightly squeezed his father’s hand. “Atar, tell me what happened.” Fëanáro’s regarded him for a moment, then his gaze turned inwards in remembrance.

“I was concentrated, pouring Power inside a stone. I didn’t sense his eyes were on me the whole time,” he began, wondering when had it started, and how could he have been so blind. “Aulë came from behind and grabbed me by the waist.” He could still smell the breath of fire and metal on his cheeks, feel the charring touch on his flesh. Unlike the caresses he had shared with Rúmil, demanding but respectful, the Vala’s touch was hungry and intrusive. His hands were hard as granite, and if he looked now, there would certainly be bruises on his skin. Fëanáro shuddered with renewed repulsion.

Maitimo was silent, and studied his father intently, waiting for the rest of the tale. When Fëanáro looked at him, he saw it again, that same… _something_ inside his son’s eyes.

Fëanáro forced the story out, and Maitimo didn’t flinch once. “When I not so gently shoved his hands off me... he didn’t understand, as if my behavior was completely unexpected.” He scoffed in despise. “We wrestled, and he pinned me to the working table.”

He had felt fear like never before; the feeling of Aulë’s cock pressed against his thigh, the certainty he was going to be forced... Fëanáro shivered. He remembered the hot eyes of the Vala like the glow of molten glass, eating him up as if he was a plate of dessert. _Ingenious Curufinwë, the best of your race. You are everything I have ever wanted!_ The wretched Ainu had said, his voice resounding as the emptiness of a murky cavern. He grimaced in disgust. The imprint of Aulë’s stony fingers still stung where they had touched without concession.

“Atar?” Maitimo’s voice called him back to the present, his brows drawn down together. “What exactly did he do to you?” His eldest pressed more urgently, eyes wide the size of two silver fruits (no, the fruits from Telperion didn’t come close to the brightness of those mithril eyes!). Fëanáro forced himself to soften his expression and cupped Maitimo’s cheeks.

“He didn’t do anything to me, my dear, because I didn’t let him. I reminded that son of a whore we were trained in wrestling and fighting and hit him in the balls with my knee.”

“You did not!” Maitimo couldn’t repress a loud laugh, despite the seriousness of the subject.

“I bet he wasn’t happy with it,” the young man suggested with the thread of voice and a smile that strangely didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh no, he wasn’t happy at all,” Fëanáro flashed him a smile. “He was enraged, in fact, but no more than I was. I told him their ridiculous plan to make us blindly follow their caging laws was futile and that soon everyone in Aman would start hearing of their hypocritical behaviors.” he stood up, waving his hands as he spoke. "I can’t imagine how many people might have gone into his forges and undergo the same treatment…” He shook his head again, only now realizing the gravity of the deed.

“And what happened?” Maitimo whispered breathlessly.

“The misbegotten prick tried to coerce me into not saying anything because it would be my word against one of the _mighty Ainur_. Malicious, hypocrite bastard!” Fëanáro spat. He paced the room like the caged creature he said they were, his braids flying behind him. He was oblivious to his son’s inner turmoil. “If they think they can contain me, they will be very, very disappointed!”

“Because of… the Laws?” Maitimo tried to focus again, still bewildered by the sheer power (and beauty) that was his father enraged, passionate. The young man licked his lips. What Laws was his father talking about? Not Physics’, surely?

The Laws and Customs of the Eldar, a rather dull book,” Fëanáro explained.

Maitimo had never heard of those laws, never even realized they had any. But then he felt suddenly stupid. It was obvious they had _some_ rules; otherwise, how could his grandfather, the High King, judge the affairs of the Crown? Maitimo almost sighed aloud. They were detached from all subjects concerning his father’s inheritance it sometimes grieved him. Now, for the first time, Maitimo thought it was time to change that. But the issue eluded him.

Fëanáro regarded his firstborn’s question. None of the boys had heard of the Laws. Fëanáro had taken care of all his children's education, and in his house, they lived by other laws, _his_ laws, without ever questioning the way men and women got involved – yet. It always seemed to him his sons were yet too young to think about these things, but Maitimo was almost of age. He deserved to know. It was past time to treat him like the adult he was about to become in a few years.

“Listen, Rusco…” he sat again on the couch and took Maitimo's hand in his. “From the day we are born, we are taught that our fate is to marry and beget children. The Valar say this is the whole purpose of our lives: to produce offspring, so they can take care of us as if we were mere dolls on display!” Fëanáro spoke passionately, his eyes shining brighter than the Trees. Maitimo leaned unconsciously in his father’s direction.

“But what about our own thoughts? Our desires?” Fëanáro sighed and looked down, speaking low as if seeing in the distance. “It took me long enough to realize that no one can tell us who to love,” Fëanáro continued, unaware of what his words were provoking. “Our desires were not made by Eru to be contained by restrictive laws of customs and order, only made to produce children! Can you see how ridiculous it is?” He turned his fiery gaze towards Maitimo, who parted his lips. “How can the Valar know the secrets of our hearts if they are not like us?” He stopped and looked down again for a few moments.

To Maitimo, it seemed he was gathering his thoughts, but Fëanáro was struggling to keep his voice steady, not show the longing in his heart. When he spoke again, it was softly like a caress.

"We deserve more than that. So when the time comes, I want you to know that to me, it won’t matter where your desires lay. I will always, always love you!” He finished, and he stroke Maitimo’s cheek suavely with his thumb.

The young man’s eyes were wide again but shone with something other than shock. Fëanáro kept beating himself up for not being able to decipher the signals that haunted his son’s face for so many years now. He didn’t take his eyes from Maitimo, trying to see deeper into his firstborn’s hurt. At the same time, he wanted to give Maitimo his own space, and let him come to him when he was ready - even if waiting was a bitter task for a parent.

And then, completely unexpected, a wave of shock struck him: Fëanáro remembered Nolofinwë’s strange behavior had started since that day in the bathroom; he thought he had seen something different for the first time in his brother’s impossibly beautiful blue eyes. It had given him so many sleepless nights later. Nolofinwë’s gait had begun to change as he grew older, and now Fëanáro wondered... Had Nolofinwë attempted to catch his attention in a different way, and he had misinterpreted everything? His heart pounded in his chest, violently. If it was so…

He turned to Maitimo’s confused face. He would think about Nolofinwë later. For now, there was one thing Fëanáro could do to atone for his past. All those talks with Rúmil had made Fëanáro understand his passion for Nolofinwë was natural because it was the purest form of love. As such, how could it be wrong? No, it wasn’t, nor sinful like the Valar would have him believe, would have all of them believe.

(Of course, being at peace with his feelings didn’t make it any easier. Didn’t exclude the fact that Nolofinwë might never feel the same – probably didn’t, because he was married to a woman who loved him, and who he quite certainly loved back. Fëanáro shook those thoughts away. _Focus, damn it, focus!_ )

Maitimo’s gaze was still fastened on his face. Fëanáro thought ruefully he would do anything for his sons, anything to wipe the darkness of their thoughts and the tears from their eyes. For Maitimo, and for all his sons, he would dispose of his heart on an anvil and let them smash it with their own hands. He loved Maitimo more than he could put into words, but he couldn’ put into his firstborn’ shoulders such a burden that of being his father’s confidant. His heart was not his to give anymore. It had been taken a long, long time ago, and was still another’s to set free - but could Maitimo really endure this reality, in which his parents were estranged and Fëanáro, in truth, yearned for his own half-brother? What if Maitimo rejected him, and broke the very special relationship they had?

No, Fëanáro couldn’t really conceive this. He exhaled noisily, still holding his son’s perfect face in his hand. Then, he drew him to a hug, so tight it almost took away his own breath. He inhaled the deep, sweet scent of his firstborn: chestnut and strawberries. He wouldn’t put this choice in Maitimo’s hands.

“Atar, what are you going to do?” The muffed voice asked in his hair, seemingly oblivious of his father’s conflictive musings.

“What do you think I should do?” Fëanáro asked honestly, going back to the previous subject for Maitimo was interested in politics in a way he had never been. Like Nolofinwë.

Maitimo drew away from the hug and stared intently at him. He knew his father was seriously asking him for his opinion – like he always did – and Maitimo felt so glad for the friendship and confidence they shared he thought he could explode. Powerful, deep love pulsated in his heart, loud and clear. He touched his father’s cheek with trembling fingers, loving him more now than he had ever in his entire life. Fëanáro put his hand on top of Maitimo's. The young man closed his eyes for a moment, remembering himself of the trust his father bestowed him. But Maitimo, at that moment, bit his lip with uncertainty for he didn’t have any clever advice to give.

“Perhaps you should talk to haru,” he tried.

Fëanáro tutted and shook his head. “No, your grandfather won’t listen. He doesn’t want to know about any of this, never have.” Fëanáro knew; he had already tried talking about the things he discussed with Rúmil, but to this subject, Finwë was as shut as Varda’s legs.

“Nolofinwë, then?” Maitimo asked unconvincingly.

Fëanáro’s eyes flew wide (and his idiotic heart skipped a beat) at his brother’s name, spoken in his son’s soft voice. He barked a laugh.

“I don’t think I could ever speak to Nolofinwë about this.” Or anything at all, he thought sadly.

Maitimo thought about the way his father said his half-brother’s name. There was a yearning in his father’s tone, and that told Maitimo something new. There was also longing and regret... Maitimo knew the two brothers were not close, for Fëanáro rarely spoke of Nolofinwë, but only now he realized enormous grief separated them. Nevertheless, he couldn’t guess what it was, and now was not the time to ask it, either.

“I don’t know what to do just yet,” Fëanáro replied quietly as if talking to himself, then turned his attention to Maitimo again. “What will you be doing all day?”

“Macalaurë had asked me to help him with his arithmetic assignment, and Tyelko will probably ask me to finish his biology one,” he grinned.

Fëanáro chuckled, pushing away the heaviness that had settled between them. “And what of your orma* treaty I asked you to help me with? I haven’t forgotten about it, in case you’re wondering.”

“I would never, atar! It is ready. I can fetch it for you.”

“Yes, bring it to me. I will spend the day in the forges, and then I want you to join me when your brothers have stopped pestering you,” he said lovingly.

Maitimo laughed and ran to his chambers upstairs. Fëanáro could hear the soft thumping of his foot on the carpet, and, a minute later, he returned with a five-page written essay. Fëanáro’s brows disappeared in his hair.

“I hope you took your time to write this in proper calligraphy. I don’t want to spend half the day trying to decipher it!” He said, riffling through the pages quickly. He could see the light, elegant handwriting firmly imprinted on the paper. Maitimo had written down many equations, to which Fëanáro smiled, knowing they would be of great help.

“It is perfectly legible, I promise! I even gave it to amil so she could read it and see if there was any part that needed revision.”

“What did she say?” Fëanáro asked, his eyes fixed on one particular formula.

“About my writing? Absolutely nothing,” Maitimo smiled cheekily. “About what we were discussing… well, I had to explain the numbers and the intent, but she was positively interested,” he added with another white-toothed grin.

Fëanáro answered with a blinding smile of his own – the smile that took everyone’s breath away.

“You are a brilliant young man, and I have never doubted you, my Russandol!” Fëanáro leaned forward and planted a loud kiss on his brow – while he still reached it. “Join me when you can,” he repeated, disappearing in a tangle of black hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed ziggy's idea of the making of a Palantír. It is similar to the process she mentioned in her (amazing) story [Through a Glass, Darkly.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1987971/chapters/4305156)
> 
> **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Canafinwë (Káno, Macalaurë) - Maglor  
> Turkafinwë (Turko, Tyelkormo, Tyelko) - Celegorm  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin
> 
> Other translations:
> 
> haru - grandfather  
> atar - father  
> 


	19. The decision part 2

That day, Fëanáro had shut himself in the forges, knowing he needed peace of mind and quiet to settle the anger that still resonated in his bones. He had worked so much he could almost see smoke coming out of his ears. He had thoroughly analyzed the formulas Maitimo had given him, and recognized, gleefully, that some parts were written in a more fluid, more hurried handwriting. Some mathematical implications of this writing told him that the mind of a musician had helped. How blessed was he that his children all loved each other as much as he loved them?

Fëanáro had waited until the day began to wane, but Maitimo never came. He saw the mingling’s shadows creeping inside the forge and realized the day was almost gone. He frowned, worried, and dropped the papers carelessly on his desk and began walking to the house. That was strange, indeed. Maitimo never failed to do what he was asked, let alone avoid helping him when he knew he was needed.

He crossed the lawn with swift strides and saw some smiths gathered around a recently lit bonfire, the smoke curling to the clear sky; they shared ale, coverlets, wine, laughter, bodies. He approached a young one, who had an arm over the shoulders of another man. He recognized Harmon, a smith whose heart he had unwillingly stolen when he was still a youth. Fëanáro hesitated, but it was too late. The man saw him approaching and quickly disentangled himself, springing up and stumbling over the blanket.

“My lord," he smiled timidly and shook his legs free of the wrap. "Care to share a mug of ale with us?” He asked, hopeful and flustered, a pink color, highlighted by the fire, crept up his neck.

He was a little unsettled every time someone in his household showed him any level of devotion. Fëanáro didn’t quite know how to react, not wishing to be rude, but also careful not to create any grudges. It was too political for his liking, but he knew it was necessary if he wanted to keep their loyalties. So he pushed the awkwardness away and smiled back, seeing the man stare in wonder. He was beginning to learn the power of his smile, but he didn’t like to overthink it; Macalaurë was using his as a weapon, indiscriminately, and he already had many besotted young maidens (and undoubtedly, although not openly) young men trailing after him.

“I’m sorry, not today.” The disappointment in the young man’s face amused him a little. “I was looking for Nelyafinwë. Have you seen him?”

The man looked positively embarrassed. Fëanáro cocked his head, trying to understand why silence abruptly fell in the circle.

“What is this? What happened?” He asked, looking around suddenly alarmed, the memory of Aulë’s assault vivid in his mind.

But the men and women gathered grew even quieter. “Harmon, what in the hells’ name is going on?” His heart beating loudly in his ears in fear.

“I don’t think Prince Nelyafinwë left the house, my lord,” the smith began. “But he seemed pretty upset and would talk to no one,” he finished in a low voice so only Fëanáro would hear it.

Oh, Eru... Fëanáro closed his eyes, feeling a twinge of pain in his guts. What was happening with his poor boy?

“Are you well, my lord?” Harmon asked very softly, slightly leaning towards Fëanáro, a frown striking between his brows. Fëanáro came back to his senses and waved a hand dismissively.

“Yes, it’s nothing. My thanks,” Fëanáro said above his shoulder, already striding back into the house. He vaguely heard the smiths biding him a good evening, to which he might have answered – although he honestly didn’t remember.

He ran upstairs and lingered outside his eldest’s chamber. This was an annexed part of the house, built after the site was ready. It had been a while since Maitimo had requested a room of his own. Fëanáro understood the necessity of being alone without younger siblings hanging around you all day. He smiled at the mental image of his sons playing, studying, and loving one another, the eldest looking after the youngest. Maitimo would do it without being asked, Macalaurë too, and Tyelkormo had already started taking care of little Morifiniwë. They all would, because they were the best children in the world, and they loved each other so much he could almost taste it.

Love. That is what Maitimo needed.

The door was not shut, so he pushed open and encountered a tidily organized chamber (which was always a matter of pride for him), long limbs, and a pool of coppery hair sprawled in the bed. An afternoon nap? That was very unlike Maitimo, he pondered. Fëanáro was genuinely concerned. Maybe he was feeling soulsick? Oh, Eru, he would carve his soul out to give it to his son if it should be so! A shuddered breath left Fëanáro’s lungs. If Maitimo was in pain, he would never forgive his negligence.

He walked towards the bed quietly and sat beside his eldest. Maitimo was outgrowing it; his feet were almost coming out at its end. Fëanáro made a mental note to build another one. Maitimo was going to need it sooner rather than later, for he was going to be taller even than Finwë. He touched Maitimo’s shoulder, stroke his generous waves away from his eyes, caressing his cheeks and the perfect curve of his eyebrow. It sometimes scared him how much he loved them. Maitimo stirred and reached out to grab Fëanáro’s caressing hand. The grip was so hard it almost hurt, but Fëanáro clutched him back: _I will never let you go_.

With one tug, Maitimo pulled him to the bed, and Fëanáro laid facing his eldest. He ran his fingers on Maitimo’s luxurious hair, smiling, for it would be the frisson of the kingdom. But then he saw a tear run through his son’s closed lashes, leaving a wet dot on the pillow. Fëanáro’s heart shrank in his chest, and he raised their intertwined fingers to wipe the tear gently. Under his grip, Maitimo was shaking.

Fëanáro wanted to say he was sorry, so, so sorry, for everything; that Maitimo didn’t have to worry about a thing because his atar was here, and he was going to do anything for his sons. . He was failing them, he thought with a constricted throat. But Maitimo didn’t let him speak. Instead, he turned their hands to his lips and kissed his father’s knuckles reverently, another pair of tears streaking down his cheeks. Fëanáro’s breath hitched, and his throat closed with emotion.

“Nelyo...” his voiced rasped.

Maitimo shook his head and silenced him. Slowly, he guided their linked hands to his chest and clasped it firmly against his body.

“Atar!” A sob broke from his lips. The anguish in his voice was a knife into Fëanáro’s heart.

“Shh, it’s alright, sweetheart. I’m here. Don’t cry, don’t cry,” Fëanáro squeezed his eyes, a lump in his throat. “Don’t fear. I’m here. I love you, and I will never let you go. Do you hear me, Nelyo? Never. I love you so much, my beautiful son!”

Fëanáro soothed Maitimo with soft words in his ear until the young man stopped sobbing. Then, Fëanáro pushed him kindly by the shoulder, so they could see each other’s faces again.

“My precious son. I love you so very much!”

“I love you too, atar, more than anything in the world,” the tears still ran freely over Fëanáro’s hand.

He waited a moment until Maitimo could recollect himself. Then, he asked: “What is the matter? Why are you so upset?”

But Maitimo merely closed his eyes and shook his head, refusing to speak of it. Fëanáro sighed. He showered Maitimo’s face with little kisses. His son widened his eyes in confusion. A mix of yearning, happiness, and something else he didn't have a name for flickered in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Nelyo, you don’t have to tell me,” Fëanáro said. Anger bubbled up his chest for the powerlessness he felt. If he couldn't make his son feel better... what use was he for? He pulled Maitimo’s head to his chest, feeling tears prickling in his eyes.

“I...” Maitimo began hesitantly. “I think I’m in love,” he whispered.

Oh. Of course. Maitimo was in _that age_ when all things strange happened to one’s body. A wave of relief washed over him and he smiled, running his hands in circles on Maitimo’s back, waiting for him to go on. As he didn’t, Fëanáro felt compelled to ask.

“With whom, if I may ask?” But Maitimo groaned and started sobbing again. “Alright, alright, you don't have to say anything!” Fëanáro was positively confused, but he wouldn't force the answer out of his eldest if he didn't want to share it. “I just want you to know I am here for you. Always, and for whatever you need. And also that I'll break the face of whoever broke your heart!” He said fiercely, making Maitimo give a sobbed laugh.

“My heart is not broken,” Maitimo said quietly, muffled voice reverberating against his chest. “It’s just… sometimes I think I love too much.”

“No, listen to me!” Fëanáro said firmly but tenderly, lifting Maitimo’s chin and caressing his cheek with his thumb. “Do not say that! Don't ever apologize for loving too much,” Fëanáro said in such a delicate tone that more tears spilled from Maitimo’s unblinking eyes. “I want you to know that it doesn’t matter who you love, I don’t want you to ever regret it! Respect your own feelings and desires. One day you will see that, when the time comes, you will give your big, wonderful heart to a person who will rightfully deserve it!”

Maitimo was silent for so long that Fëanáro made him withdraw to look into his son’s eyes again. They were still haunted but had softened when their gazes met. Fëanáro smiled lovingly, took Maitimo's head in his hands, and kissed his nose. “You are perfect, my love, and don’t deserve to be loved in half. And remember, your atar will always, _always_ love you, no matter what. Even,” Fëanáro continued, trying to make Maitimo laugh once more “if one day you come to hate me, I will keep loving you.”

Maitimo looked at him, horrified. At his son’s indignant stare, Fëanáro chuckled and, as if reading his mind, he said: “Love and hatred tread a very narrow path, Rusco, and as sometimes we mistake one for the other, we often will hate more intensely those we love the most.”

His son was quiet for a while, then he lowered his eyes again. “I could never hate you, no matter what you did. I would follow you to the ends of Arda. I just... I don't know how to do this.”

“Hush. Don't think about this right now. I'm here for you.” Fëanáro's voice was rough, overcome by emotion to seeing his son so vulnerable.

Maitimo buried his face on his father’s shoulder again, inhaling the familiar scent of fire, metal, and eucalyptus, struggling not to weep like a child. But his father's strong arms enfolded him in a tight embrace, and he was indeed taken back to his infancy when Fëanáro would rock him to sleep. He was safe, it didn't matter what would happen from that moment on.

“I'm yours, atar,” Maitimo whispered inside his hair.

“Yes, you are mine, sweetheart, as I am yours. All of you own me as much as I own you.”

Maitimo flung his arms and legs around Fëanáro’s, and they held each other for a long time. Fëanáro broke the embrace and touched Maitimo’s cheek.

“I want you to know you can always trust me to confide your worst fears, your darkest desires. I will never be against your happiness. Can you promise me that?”

“Yes. You had my trust without having to ask for it,” Maitimo stroked his father’s hair, taking one strand away from his black lashes.

“Now promise me you will never again suffer alone. Promise you will come to me if you need anything, anything at all!”

“Um-hum, I won't ever lie or hide anything from you,” Maitimo smiled feebly. Fëanáro felt fierce, powerful love bursting in his chest, for he didn’t know what he had done to deserve such a perfect son.

“You are truly the best part of me, Nelyo,” he murmured with a light, tender smile. “Come now, we still have a lot of work to do.” He stood, pulled the young man up with him, and pecked his nose like when he was a small child. Maitimo couldn’t help smiling fondly.

He watched his eldest’s elegant movements. Maitimo looked calmer, though his eyes spoke differently. When his son reached for the hairbrush, Fëanáro stepped in and took it from his hands, sitting behind him in bed. He reverently combed the wild copper mane, untying the knots. Maitimo was silent, but his back was straight as a spear, and Fëanáro could feel he still wasn’t entirely relaxed like he should be; all his children loved when he brushed and braided their hairs.

There was something else, Fëanáro sensed as if Maitimo wanted to continue the conversation, but he waited for his son to engage. Fëanáro didn’t want to force any more revelations he wasn’t ready to make - although he wished Maitimo did as he had just promised as spilled his heart's secrets. As if sensing his father’s concern, Maitimo shifted slightly and changed the position of his legs.

“Atar…” he began quietly. “What if I never get married? What if I never want to? I know all elders want grandchildren!” He spurted out.

Maitimo felt his father’s hand stop in mid-action, and he held his breath. This is it, he thought, this is when he will say it’s my duty. Fëanáro let his hands drop from his head to his shoulders. It was but a second of hesitation, and the next moment Fëanáro threw his head back and laughed out loud, squeezing him lightly. Maitimo turned in bed a little surprised and caught his father’s frost-melting gaze. Fëanáro grinned openly and turned Maitimo’s head with his hands so he could finish braiding him.

“I don’t know where you heard that nonsense, but I’m quite content with my own children, thank you,” he said not a little amused. But then, sobering up, he continued. “If you ever wish for children of your own, come talk to me. As it doesn’t seem the case now…” Maitimo shook his head, agreeing with a smile. “Well, then, there is nothing to worry, dear. I will never force you into marrying for politics’ sake, especially without love.”

“Like you did,” Maitimo added without hesitation.

Fëanáro's breath sucked in, and he stilled his movements once more. His firstborn was more perceptive than anyone he ever knew, and he wondered how much Maitimo actually saw. He and Nerdanel got along as much as they could, even though they spent less and less time together. There were the children, which demanded almost all their attention – which Fëanáro gave without blinking – and they were still building the house. Nerdanel had her sculpting workshop done, and spent a significant part of her day there, but it was true the two barely had time for themselves as a couple. He could get wrapped up in his work for days on end, and this was the subject she always brought in their arguing of late - not that she did any different!

Fëanáro sighed. Nerdanel was always tired, for the births were hard on her, but she was the one to ask for more children – and how could he deny her? Fëanáro didn’t love her and felt it was the least he could do to try and make her happy. But it was clear Maitimo saw beyond that, deeper into his father's heart. For a brief second, Fëanáro wondered if he had guessed the true nature of his love. No, it was doubtful he knew, since Fëanáro barely spoke his brother’s name! It was, in fact, as if Nolofinwë didn't even exist! He winced at that thought and pushed it away.

“I didn't marry your mother for politics,” he began thoughtfully, “but she and I indeed have an understanding. Even if we don't love each other, we will stick to our arrangement for you and your brothers.” Fëanáro finished braiding, and Maitimo turned in full to him.

“She does,” his son added quietly, holding his father’s potent gaze inside his own. “Mother loves you, I can see it in her eyes. It's not surprising, though. I don't know one person who knows you and doesn’t love you.”

“Well, that is because you don't spend much time in Tirion,” he said, grinning, and they shared a vivid laugh together. Fëanáro was relieved to see the shadow in his son’s heart had dissipated. “That’s more like it. The dusk has come to greet this beautiful smile of yours! Now come, I still want your opinion.”

“How are your experiments going? Is it working?” Maitimo asked, all worries forgotten. He loved his father with all his heart, and that was all that mattered.

“Yes, considerably. In fact, today, I made some significant advances.” Fëanáro blazed him a smile on their way down to the forges.

Maitimo’s eyes widened in anticipation. “Have you tested? Does it work?” He asked excitedly, beaming at Fëanáro.

“It will, if you stop asking questions and start answering them with me,” his father teased, but Maitimo scoffed.

“How likely is it that I know something you don’t?”

“You know many things I don’t, dear, and that’s why I’m asking your opinion. Are you ready to give it?”

“Yes…” Maitimo hesitated, and they halted abruptly. “But Macalaurë is also very talented, atar, and he helped me with many of the formulas,” he admitted, and Fëanáro’s pride for his children swelled again inside his chest. “His connection to the Song is bigger than in any of us, except you. He would be of great help, as well.”

Fëanáro nodded, still smiling. “Go fetch him then, will you? No laying down for a nap this time!” He said gently, touching the tip of his firstborn’s ear.

Maitimo smiled and ran inside to find Macalaurë. His sons were unquestionably the most wonderful beings in all Arda. He wasn’t lying when he said they were his most fabulous creations. With their help, he would perfect yet another that would shake Valinor to its core. Oh, he couldn’t wait to see the look on Rúmil’s face, the talk of the scholars who insisted on doubting him, how his father would react – and then his thoughts had faltered. It happened every time he worked on a new invention.

It was always exciting, but the one with whom he was most eager to share his experiments wasn’t there to praise him, to partake in it with him, and perfect it with his keen remarks. Fëanáro had groaned aloud and hated himself a little more, wanting to bang his head on the wall until it pierced to the other side. Fëanáro knew he was blessed, and thanked Eru for the marvelous sons He had given him. He would never exchange one moment in their company for anything else in the world, not even Nolofinwë – but by the gods, how much he missed him!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Canafinwë (Káno, Macalaurë) - Maglor  
> Turkafinwë (Turko, Tyelkormo, Tyelko) - Celegorm  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin
> 
> Other translations:
> 
> atar - father  
> atto - daddy  
> amil - mother  
> mamil - mummy  
> orma - literally, physical matter but I meant it as the subject of Physics  
> nólë - lore, knowledge  
> ingolë - Science, Philosophy


	20. The decision part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third part of the slipt chapter. There is also a new little bit that I wanted to add. So, if you like this, give me a shout out in the comments! Let me know what you think! :)

_Back to today_

The mingling had already started, and the first rays of Laurelin stretched lazily on the top of the trees. Fëanáro was brought back to reality. The conversation he had had with Maitimo the day before enlightened his thoughts, and some resolution settled in his mind. This was it. His children had never spent more than an afternoon in the palace. It was past time they went back for a full experience - oh, he didn’t intend to bring them any closer to the Court than they already were, but it would be good for them to know their... enemies (and that’s where Nolofinwë was, nowadays, he thought wryly). Yes, he had decided what to do, and it was time to wake the boys.

He put the goblet down and left the forges, walking silently towards his house. There were some smiths camping outside, and they curled together under blankets, sharing the heat of their bodies. As he walked, Fëanáro mused, with certainty, no matter how wonderful his sons were – and they were much more than he could ever have hoped for – without Nolofinwë, his life would never be complete. He needed to see his brother again; it was due time, and his heart settled determinedly once more.

Fëanáro entered through the kitchen as usual and took off his shoes, silently going upstairs. The house was unusually quiet, and he could almost hear the breathings of his beloved children. Carefully, he opened the door to his own chamber. Nerdanel was fast asleep, and Moryo was sleeping in the bed with her. Fëanáro smiled fondly. Moryo could steal his pillow and whatever else he wanted because look at him! His brows were thick and adorable; his feet were as big as his hands, despite his tender age. This one would be a great crafter or a great swimmer, he smiled to himself.

Fëanaro tiptoed to his side and kissed Moryo lightly on the brow. The boy stirred and opened his black coal eyes, and Fëanáro greeted him with a blinding smile. The boy opened his mouth to shout “atto!” like he always did when he woke up, but Fëanáro urged him to silence with a finger on his lip. Understanding, he looked back at his mother and slipped quietly out of bed, falling straight into his father’s protective arms.

Fëanáro then stared at Nerdanel and felt an immense sense of gratitude towards her for giving him the best gifts he could possibly have. He stroked her hair gently, and she stirred, searching for his hand. He disentangled gently and went to the crib, where Kurvo was sleeping, his peaceful features half-hidden. The baby was so hairy it made him want to laugh. Such a precious boy! All of them were. _His_ boys. He scooped up the babe, careful not to wake him up, and turned to Moryo, who was finishing putting on his shoes. Moryo went ahead of him and opened the door for his father, who held Kurvo securely in his arms.

Moryo ran ahead and entered the chamber he shared with Turko and Káno, and Fëanáro knew the boy didn’t need any help. He pushed the door open with his hip and saw that Moryo was jumping on Turko as if he was another pillow; his little hunter grunted like a lion cub and pushed the blankets above his ears to shut out Moryo’s happy shrieks. Kurvo stirred in his arms, and he held the baby more tightly, kissing his head. As if he had said “sleep,” the Kurvo rested the drowsy little head on his father’s shoulder. Now Moryo had managed to strip Turko off his sheets, and they were both throwing pillows at each other, laughing merrily.

On the other side of the chamber, Macalaurë feigned deep sleep, and Fëanáro wondered how long could he pretend with all the wreck his younger brothers were doing. Fëanáro leaned and managed to plant a kiss on Tyelko’s pillowed head before he got hit himself – Moryo tried, but Fëanáro grabbed the pillow before the boy could do it and threw it his face instead. Moryo fell on his back, laughing.

“Not fair, atto!” He cried.

Fëanáro chuckled and let Moryo finish waking Tyelko up; he strode to Macalaurë’s bed, sitting beside the Singer of his Song. He touched the hair that was so like his own. Immediately, as if sensing the humming of his brother’ fëa, Kurvo wiggled out of his arms and crawled his way to Macalaurë’s pillow; the baby grabbed his elder brother’s hair and made cooing, delightful sounds. Fëanáro laughed loudly, then. Yes, it would be impossible for his second-born to resist the child. As predicted, Macalaurë turned his head and first granted Fëanáro a blazing smile. Then, both their mercury eyes met. Kurvo let out a peal of happy laughter, and Macalaurë laughed with him, enveloping the baby gently in a loving embrace. Fëanáro’s mandibles already ached because he hadn’t stopped smiling.

“Make sure you and your brothers are ready for breakfast in half an hour,” Fëanáro let the baby with Macalaurë and smacked a kiss on both their foreheads.

Maitimo was already up, making his bed. His hair was loosely braided, but the room about him was organized. Maitimo slanted him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, so Fëanáro regarded his son attentively. That was something in Maitimo’s attitude that suggested he was absent-minded, folding the clothes like he wasn’t really seeing what he was doing. Fëanáro was eaten up by guilt and wished he could kiss away all doubt. Maitimo looked anxiously at him, then, and Fëanáro reached out a hand, which his son eagerly took. Fëanáro pulled him for a choking hug, closing his arms on his son’s body. He felt the immediate response, as Maitimo wrapped his slim arms around his chest and buried his coppery head in his shoulder.

As if sensing his eldest’s conflictive feelings, Fëanáro whispered almost inaudibly on the top of his head. “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Maitimo pushed back, startled with the vulnerability in his father’s voice. “For being the best father one could ask? No, atar, you don’t need to be forgiven, because there is nothing to forgive. I love with all my heart, and nothing you do will ever change that.”

Fëanáro opened his mouth but stammered against his own tears. So he pulled Maitimo’s head back into his shoulder. “My beautiful son. My beautiful Russandol,” he spoke hoarsely. “I don’t know what I did to be blessed with such perfect boys like you and your brothers.”

“I’m not perfect, atar!” Maitimo chuckled, burying his nose in his father’s neck, inhaling that bewitching eucalyptus scent that reminded him of the deep woods.

“To me, all of you are!” He set a loud kiss on the top of his son’s head and pushed Maitimo so he could look him in the eyes. The young man didn’t falter. There was nothing left to hide; there was longing, hurt, and love dripping from under his light brown lashes. Fëanáro touched his cheek gently and, at that point, Macalaurë entered the room. In his arms, Kurvo chewed a toy in the shape of a harp. Maitimo slipped gently from his father’s embrace to kiss them both on the cheeks.

Fëanáro made them breakfast - eggs, cold pheasant his smiths had given him from yesterday’s hunt, white bread with butter, strawberry marmalade, and honeyed milk – while the brothers bantered with each other. He listened, unaware of the smile he had on his lips. Maitimo’s cheerful laughter and teasing behind him eased the heaviness that had settled in his heart. They ate as peacefully as they could, the youngest dropping everything from their hands as if they were made of lettuce, and there was a lot of laughter, and talk on top of one another.

“Now come, you lazy cats!” Fëanáro said when they were over. “I want you to pack whatever you will need for a long trip. We leave in an hour.”

“Leave?”

“Where are we going?”

Maitimo and Macalaurë spoke at the same time.

“Are we going hunting in Yavanna’s pastures at last? Or are we going to finally climb Hyarmentir?” Tyelkormo jabbered.

“Neither,” Fëanáro said, smiling playfully. “I have come to a decision,” he shared a knowing gaze with Maitimo. “It’s been too long since you last visited your grandfather, so we are going to Tirion for a period. Plus...” he made a theatrical pause, and all of them went still and quiet as statues, which made Maitimo chuckle. “It’s past time you’ve learned some wrestling.” Fëanáro finished triumphantly.

They all broke in excited exclamations at once, but Maitimo stared with his brows drawn down and was silent.

“Wrestling? Are we going to fight like Tulkas?” Macalaurë inquired.

“One day, I will be as strong as him!” Tyelkormo lifted his slim little arms in an imitation of the Vala’s most iconic pose.

Moryo snorted. “Why do you want to be strong? So you can sleep with a bear in your bed?” Macalaurë laughed out loud, his voice like a chiming of resonant bells.

Fëanáro raised his hand to appease their chattering. “No, you will learn from Eonwë, who taught me when I was about your age, Káno. He teaches different techniques of fighting, and you will improve your bow shooting, as well.”

They all looked at each other delightedly and restarted talking together again. Macalaurë and Tyelkormo engaged in talk of who would drop Maitimo on his back first. The latter laughed at their audacious intent, and they were even more pleased to have made their eldest so joyous.

“This is going to draw some attention, I suppose,” Maitimo stated, then, openly smiling to show his father he would support whatever decision he made.

“I bet it will,” Fëanáro flashed him a mischievous smile of his own.

“And we can meet our cousins!” Tyelkormo squirmed excitedly in his seat.

“Not all of them. Some live in Alqualondë with uncle Arafinwë,” Maitimo corrected him kindly.

Arafinwë... Fëanáro had not even spared his other half-brother a thought. They had rarely seen each other or even exchanged more than polite words. It was as if one didn’t exist for the other. Well, now they were all going to the city, he was sure his sons would draw every eye (and comment) like moths to a flame. His handsome sons! Maitimo with his sun-bright smile and fiery mane, Macalaurë with his adorable dimples and a voice that could command the sea to stillness, Tyelkormo with Míriel’s fair gray hair and green eyes like the forest, Morifinwë and his black eyes of coal, and now, baby Curufinwë with eyes like two silver coins. All beautiful, all _his_!

“When do we leave, atar?” Macalaurë asked, touching his elbow gently.

“As soon as you lazy lot is ready!” He smiled again, knowing this was what it took to make them run frantically around the house and gather their things.

“I will prepare the horses,” Tyelkormo shouted, already running through the door.

“Why exactly are we going to learn how to fight?” Macalaurë was still holding his sleeve. Fëanáro regarded his mercury-starred eyes.

“It’s natural for all Elves to learn these skills, to protect us from anything that might do us harm,” he explained.

“But I thought this was the Blessed Realm and that nothing could harm us here!” Macalaurë wasn’t frightened, but curious. Sagacious, this one.

“Are you not eager about the nólë anymore, Káno?” Maitimo’s brows shot up in genuine surprise. His brothers were all interested in learning, it didn’t matter what – even Turko, who wasn’t the best student of ingolë*, loved everything related to hunting and animal life.

“I am!” Macalaurë answered quickly. “I just never heard atar speak thus.”

“Don’t be afraid, broth-”

“I’m not!” Macalaurë cut in.

“No one will dare lay a hand on your hair, Káno,” Fëanáro intervened. “I will never let that happen. But Nelyo is right. Think about the knowledge as an end in itself. Now, if your brother has not found another furry friend to stop him fetching the horses, we leave. Come on, Maitimo, get your things. Káno, help Moryo. I will go talk to your mother.”

The elder brothers glanced at each other. They knew what was coming.

“Now, don’t give me those looks! I’m not going to yell at her!”

“But mamil will,” Moryo said in a surprisingly upset voice. “She always does...” he finished pouting.

“Well, I will do my best not to upset her,” he bent down and kissed the boy’s inky hair.

“Good luck with that,” Macalaurë muttered under his breath, but not quietly enough. The boys looked at each other and snorted. Macalaurë hid a peal of snickering laughter.

“Stop that!” Fëanáro squatted the back of his head lightly when he passed, but he was also laughing. He slid his fingers down on Macalaurë’s lush black hair and run upstairs to their chamber. But Nerdanel wasn’t there.

He went straight to her studio, then, and entered without knocking. She was sitting before the desk, chisel in hands, and didn’t tear her eyes off the statue when he came. Fëanáro leaned on the table and crossed arms in front of his chest. He watched her work for a while, not wanting to interrupt the creative process. She was talented, and her sculptures were lifelike. This bust of Tyelkormo was especially good. He took a closer look at her and saw she was clearly tired. There were dark purple circles under her eyes, and her hands trembled a little.

“This is great work.”

“My thanks, but it’s not nearly finished, and it’s not coming how I’d like,” Nerdanel complained, sighing.

“I thought you were going to have breakfast with us.”

“I’m sorry, I intended to. I woke up with this new idea and came here to do it quickly. But, well, as you can see, it wasn’t as simple as I had imagined, and I got carried away,” she smiled apologetically.

Fëanáro smiled back. If there was one thing he could understand was how their work could get out of hands. It also felt good to talk to her quietly like this. They weren’t doing it enough lately. And here he was to disturb the stillness of the morning, bringing her news she wasn’t going to like. He sighed, mustering courage.

“I’m taking the boys away for a while,” he announced softly. It sounded as if it was the answer to all her problems, but he knew she wasn’t going to see it like that.

“Oh?” She finally tore her eyes from her work and looked up at him. Fëanáro, instead, looked down at the statue. It was beautiful, but he could see where she was struggling and was about to say something when, noticing his silence, she spoke again.

"Care to tell me where?”

Fëanáro winced at her aggressive tone. Why did she have to talk to him like he was constantly doing something wrong?

“I’m going to the palace for a few weeks. I want to resume my wrestling lessons with Eonwë and think it’s past time the boys learned it, as well.”

“Wrestling? You cannot be serious!” Her brows disappeared on her hairline.

“I am surprised you didn’t think that yourself, knowing what I have told you about Aulë!”

“I wish you stopped muttering anti-Valar propaganda inside our boys' heads,” she said, exasperated.

“Propaganda?” Fëanáro narrowed his eyes, trying with all his strength to repress a fit of increasing anger. “Is this what you really think? Were you not listening when I told you Aulë would have raped me?” He remembered the promise to the boys and struggled to keep his voice down, but there was a bitting warning Nerdanel didn’t miss.

“They will grow up thinking themselves unprotected and unsafe!”

Fëanor fumed. His nostrils flared with fury, and he hissed. “That will never happen because they have me!” He spun on his heels and strolled off, leaving his wife screaming complains behind him. Moryo was right, Nerdanel _was_ yelling. Gods, she was impossible! Fëanáro knew she was tired for such a trip and wondered that, maybe, she would like to take the time to retreat to her father's house and visit her family as well. He had been willing, though, to accept if she had said she wanted to join them, but now he was glad she didn’t!

The boys were waiting outside, already mounted, his horse ready. He stepped down the house, and his sons avoided looking in his eyes. They were all expecting him to be in a dark mood like he often became after fighting with their mother, but Fëanáro just jumped on his big black horse and smiled at each one of them. Nerdanel wasn’t important. Let her yell at the walls. Here he was, with his beautiful, bright stars beside him. That was all that mattered.

“Let’s ride!” He cried with the grin of a child’s and a sparkle in his eyes.

His horse snorted, shook the mane as black as his rider's, and jumped ahead. When they reached a gallop, Fëanáro felt the gush of the wind, and its cold fingers freeze his exposed throat. He tasted what freedom could be like. He imagined lands where there were no kings, no laws, no barriers; his mind drifted, his sons beside him, the pounding of hooves in his ears.

They arrived in Tirion in a storm of light, unaware that all gazes rested upon the astounding vision the family of the Crown Prince made.

***

Almawen sat on a stool and polished the King’s silver cutlery as if it was the most precious treasure in the world. She was thinking about her beloved family, but her wistful thoughts were interrupted by Laríel, who entered the room in a hurry. The older maid had stripes of fabric intertwined through her breast and back and, inside, Almawen could only see a shock of fuzzy black hair.

She chuckled with the sight, and Irissë peered her big blue eyes to watch whoever was laughing. When the baby got a glimpse of Almawen, she gave an adorable toothless smile, and squirmed inside the improvised hanger, as if she wished to be already running, instead of passively watching. Almawen’s chest swelled with love for the little adventurer, always making Laríel and every adult in the room - and, eventually, her big brother – run after her. Irissë hated being held in arms, and would only accept if the person kept moving.

Almawen’s lord, her beautiful, noble lord, never complained about Irissë’s restlessness. The moment the baby got tired of being sat still and started crying, he would pick her up and fly with her around the palace, and her delighted laughter would be heard ringing up the walls. Almawen gave a little smile. She loved all her lord’s pretty babies, even Findekáno, who was not a baby anymore! He was as beautiful as an autumn morning, oh yes, he was! His big smile could melt the snowy mountains, even the Queen’s icy looks. But none could compare to her lord. How could it be possible that Prince Nolofinwë looked even more kingly and handsome with the years pass? Almawen didn’t know. She was still thinking about the way his elegant fingers touched Turukáno’s rosy cheeks, and his lips spread in the most beautiful shape she had ever seen, continuously enthralled by his beauty and kindness.

“Wake up, child, stop daydreaming, and help me!” Laríel chided.

Almawen smiled fondly and stood up, putting the dirty cloth aside. Laríel was always mad with someone for something they did wrong – and Almawen was always doing something wrong. But Almawen knew dear Laríel loved her as if she was her own daughter. So she finished organizing the Queen’s clothes that Laríel had been piling up in the bed.

“Go, take these to the Queen. See here? You’ll know it’s hers because it has her name,” Laríel said, pressing her chubby finger in an embroidered golden letter – to Almawen, looked like so many others. Laríel had taught her the letters Prince Fëanáro developed – that brilliant, brilliant boy! - but Almawen could never really learn.

“And these you’ll take to the princess.” Agh, not the princess! Almawen didn’t like to be in her presence. Ever severe, and looking at her as if she could walk over and clean her shoes on Almawen’s teeth. The servant grimaced at the order.

“Almawen! How many times have I told you not to make that face when we mention the princess?” Laríel lowered her voice to a hissed warning, grabbing her arm firmly and shaking her. Almawen winced at her tone. She couldn’t help it!

“Well, it has been many years now. You better get used to her name and her presence once and for all. Now stop stalling and go! The Queen awaits!”

Almawen was shoved off the room with a pile of clothes dangling from each hand. Which one was for the Queen again? She bit her lip. Both of them were white, for both the Queen and the princess favored this color. What was it that Laríel said? Almawen stopped in the middle of the hallway and searched briefly for signs. Ah, yes! The embroidery was on her right pile, so this was surely the Queen’s clothes! Almawen breathed in relief but felt ashamed. Why couldn’t she remember anything Laríel said? Or anyone, for that matter?

She first stopped at her beloved lord’s chambers and knocked softly.

“Come in,” came the princess’s voice from inside.

Almawen opened the door with her elbow and pushed it with her hip, clumsily hopping from one foot to the other, the piles of clothes swaying dangerously in her arms.

“Give me that!” Almawen looked up and saw that princess Anairë had approached her like a silent cat, and now judged her with lips pressed together in a thin line and flared nostrils, a clear sign not to say or do anything stupid. Almawen handed the pile of her left arm to the princess, who took it with a brusque movement.

Almawen lowered her head in passive submission, for this was her lord’s chosen. She had hated the princess in the beginning but stopped when the children started to come. Who could hate the one who gave her lord so many beautiful babies and such joy? Her lord had needed it, for Prince Fëanáro’s absence took a heavy toll in her lord’s mood.

Oh, blessed Valar, she was still in the room! What was she still doing here, thinking about her lord in princess Anairë’s presence? Almawen turned quickly to leave.

“Girl!”

The commanding voice froze Almawen in her feet. She turned slowly, fearfully. The lady princess never spoke one single word to her, and now Almawen knew she had made another mistake. A brief glance into those turquoise eyes and Almawen knew the princess was furious.

“These are the Queen’s clothes!” Princess Anairë’s voice was full of disdain. “How can you mistake mine with the Queen’s belongings? Give me those. Come now, be quick!” Almawen winced and handed the correct pile of clothes into the princess’s white, waiting hands.

“I wonder how you can still be working here, distracted as you are,” the princess said, regarding her with the haughty eyes of a falcon, ready to plunge at its prey. “You must be highly regarded by the King, for I see no reason to keep you as a personal servant.”

Almawen’s heart fell to the floor, and her face must have shown it, for the princess gave a little, triumphant smile. But no, she couldn’t be parted from her lord’s side! Anything but this! Almawen threw herself miserably at the princess’s feet, kissing the white shoes made of rabbit fur.

“Oh no, please, my lady, please, don’t send me away, please! I will do anything, anything at all! Just don’t send me away!”

She knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t help it either. Tears fell abundantly, sprinkling the floor wet. She grabbed the lady’s white dress in complete desperation. Almawen had already lost Queen Míriel, her mother and father, and then Prince Fëanáro. Oh, no, please don’t let her lose her beloved Prince Nolofinwë as well! Princess Anairë stepped back and looked down at Almawen’s sobbing form on the ground.

“Stop crying, I won’t send you away.” Almawen’s head snapped up in surprise and gratitude, and she made to take the lady’s hand, but the princess shied from her touch. Almawen dropped her cupped hands on the floor, begging.

“No, I won’t send you away,” the princess repeated more softly, a tone Almawen had never heard from her lips before. “But in exchange, I demand your loyalty.” Her voice was rough with the lack of use.

Loyalty? But Almawen was already heartily devoted to the family, what more could she give? Her lord could have her entire heart in a platter if he asked for it! Did she have anything else than her body to give? Well, she could give the princess that, too. Almawen stood up abruptly, and the lady started, taking a step back. Almawen looked down at her brown garment, neatly sewed by Laríel, and started unlacing it.

“What are you doing?” The princess asked in horror. “Stop that right now, you little degenerate thing!”

Almawen blinked, hands stilled in the laces of her tunic. She didn’t know she was degenerate – in fact, didn’t even know what the word meant. The princess seemed furious again, and Almawen went back on her knees. She would do anything to keep at her lord’s side, but what could she do to prove it? Almawen wished she could say this to the white princess, but she couldn’t. Her voice was stuck in her throat, for she didn’t know how to talk to anyone, let alone princes and princesses.  
  
“If you don’t want to find yourself living on the streets and seeking shelter under bridges, you have to give me your word that I shall have your loyalty,” Anairë’s high-pitched voice was shaky with fury, Almawen thought, but the girl still couldn’t move. She looked at the floor, the little pools of tears staining the stone. She frotted her sleeve to clean them. Almawen was unable to think how she would live without her lord – it didn’t matter where. She couldn’t live without Prince Nolofinwë!

“Do you understand me, girl?” Anairë continued. “You must acquiesce, and I shall say nothing to my husband of your clumsiness and depravity.”

Almawen bit her lower lip. The princess spoke difficult words, and it was hard to understand what she wanted. She dared to look a centimeter up, to the lady’s knees and nodded. Anything, she would do anything. Didn’t she say that already?

“Good.”

Anairë stepped closer and crouched in front of her. Cold sweat rolled down Almawen’s spine, and she felt her breath hitching in her lungs, frightened of the power of the white princess. Almawen felt warm, slim fingers raise her chin up, and was forced to look at the princess’s face. She tried to slip her gaze, but Anairë tilted her head so their eyes met, and Almawen couldn’t look away. The princess held her inside those unfriendly turquoise eyes.

“You will do whatever I ask of you, won’t you?”

“Yes, my lady,” Almawen managed to whisper with the briefest of nods. She didn’t want to raise the ire of the princess again with sudden, clumsy movements.

“I see the way you look at my husband.” Almawen’s eyes flew wide, but not of shame. She loved her prince and would never say otherwise. No, she was afraid of the lady’s jealousy. But could the lady be jealous of her, a simple, unworthy servant?

“Well,” the princess continued, taking her silence for a confirmation, “since you fancy him so much, you will spy on Prince Nolofinwë for me. No one must know, and you must not be seen. Do you understand?”

Almawen frowned. The concept of “spying” was unknown to her. Did the princess mean that Almawen needed to be staring at the prince at all times? She sighed with relief. Well, that was not a problem at all! Almawen already did that a lot, and would still gladly do it. But, somehow, she thought it was better to keep that information to herself. The princess didn’t need to know about her hiding places in the walls.

“Well?” Anairë’s fingers shook her chin a little, so Almawen was ripped from her thoughts.

The princess was not as gentle as Laríel, but Almawen nodded. She had to agree; the fear of been taken away from her lord was unbearable. The princess stood up and was saying something about the periodicity of her reports (once a day, when she was alone in their chambers). Almawen also raised, head still bowed, and left the room when the princess stopped talking. No, not just the princess anymore. It was _her_ princess now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Canafinwë (Káno, Macalaurë) - Maglor  
> Turkafinwë (Turko, Tyelkormo, Tyelko) - Celegorm  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin
> 
> Other translations:
> 
> orma - literally, physical matter but I meant it as the subject of Physics  
> nólë - lore, knowledge  
> ingolë - Science, Philosophy


	21. Meetings

Nolofinwë hurried out of the palace before Anairë could stop him. He held Irissë tightly in his arms and didn’t stop until he reached Rochallor, readied, and patiently waiting for him outside the stables. Findekáno was already there, Turukáno sitting in front of him with a content smile on his face.

“Prince Nolofinwë! My lord!” Nolofinwë didn’t heed her, so Laríel called him louder like the nanny she used to be – and still was for his children. “Stop and listen to me, foolish child!” She scolded, jogging closer in her chubby legs. Nolofinwë couldn’t help smiling. She was one of the few people who could still talk to him like that, and he wouldn’t mind – but because he wasn’t going to listen to her pleas in the first place.

Rochallor nudged him in the shoulder, and Nolofinwë patted his soft nose. He passed Irissë to Laríel’s arms without blinking and finished strapping in the supplies and tying the stripes that would hold the baby better.

“My lord, the High Princess will inquire about young Irissë,” Laríel said, lowering her voice, aware there was a warning behind her teeth.

Oh, yes, Anairë was going to be furious he was riding out with all their children. But they never had a moment for themselves, and what better opportunity to be with his sons than training with Eönwë? He needed this, an illusion of freedom from the enclosing walls and suffocating atmosphere his life had become. The boys needed it also. Although he praised both of them for their hard-learned lessons, they barely had had time to enjoy summer. It was a hot day, not a cloud in the sky, and if he let his wife decide, the boys would be with their noses stuffed up in books for three whole months!

No, they all needed this, even Irissë. It would be good for his little girl to know and spend time in her father’s and brothers’ presence… stop clinging on her mother’s breasts, like Anairë would have it every single moment, if she could. Laríel was still speaking of how imprudent it was of him to run away like that, without a word to the princess. He finished adjusting his harness in silence and then turned to her with a blinding smile that made her stammer. Nolofinwë chuckled and kissed her cheek.

“Don’t worry about us, Laríel.”

“It’s not you I worry about, but me! My ears will be burning for three days, surely, with the chiding I will receive for letting you take her,” she muttered, caressing Irissë’s black hair, as fuzzy as Findekáno’s.

“You are not _letting_ me do anything, for I am the High Prince, and I take my sons wherever I want when it suits me,” he flashed, eyes edged with a cold gleam.

Laríel smacked her lips shut and went silent with the warning. He was right, of course.

“I appreciate your concern,” Nolofinwë smiled and added softly, touching the back of her hand. “Stop worrying and merely inform the princess of where we will be. She will be welcome to join us if she wishes. Findekáno will certainly enjoy if his mother for once shows interest in his prowess on the pit,” he gave her a significant look.

He was right again. Laríel was not merely a servant, but one of the oldest friends of the Royal family and knew about their lives even better than themselves. Nolofinwë jumped lightly on the horse’s back and extended his arms without a word. Laríel could do nothing but hand the girl in her father’s arms. Nolofinwë kissed Irissë’s head and settled her in front of him. The baby looked up with a pout, big blue eyes shining wet. Nolofinwë didn’t know if Irissë would cry because she was tied up so well and would have to be still – a thing she loathed – or because she was afraid of the horse.

“Look, sweetheart,” he said in her ear, leaning forward to touch the pearly mane and the horse’s muscular neck. He took her small hand under his and pet the horse again. “See how good he is? He will carry you wherever you want and will never let you fall,” he whispered close to her rosy cheek, inhaling her sweet baby scent.

Irissë looked at her father attentively, and, as if listening, Rochallor whined, making Nolofinwë smile in turn. The girl relaxed in his lap and smiled back, feeling the strength and softness of its white hair. She raised her arms and cooed happily, to which Nolofinwë took as a sign to gallop.

“Ready?” He flashed Findekáno a bright smile.

“Always!” The boy answered, and tugged Brogo to the pathway, but the small gray steed passively waited for the greater one.

“Say goodbye to Laríel, my sweet! Come, we ride with the wind!” He took the reins, and Rochallor shook its head in impatience, pawing the grass underneath. The white horse galloped out of the palace, and Irissë let out a peal of laughter that warmed Nolofinwë’s heart. He looked at the boys, and both were laughing softly. Yes, they all needed it.

***

Nolofinwë and Findekáno circled each other. The latter had a bead of sweat over his lips. The hair of his front was plastered against his skin, and he tossed impatiently the thick, already loose braid behind his shoulder. Nolofinwë had a predatory smile on his face that made it all much worst. Both assessed each other’s moves, looking for a breach, but Findekáno couldn’t concentrate. The sun burned his brain, making it impossible to think about anything but water. And, of course, there was the fact his father was so much better than him.

“Go on, Finno, you can do this!”

One of the spectators encouraged him, but Nolofinwë’s smile deepened. Findekáno looked beyond his father’s shoulder and saw Hurinion waiving enthusiastically at him. He breathed, trying to relax. He knew his friends were always impressed by his prowess in anything Eönwë taught them, but to be challenged by the High Prince was another matter entirely. This was going to be an astounding defeat.

“Don’t be ridiculous, no one can beat Father!” Turukáno’s small voice shouted back to the audience in general, without looking for the owner of the call. There was well-spirited laughter at the little boy’s ferocity. Irissë played with the sand at his feet, but Turukáno didn’t take his eyes out of the pit, where Findekáno and Nolofinwë still circled one another. Suddenly, the voices around them raised in a crescendo, and there was a commotion outside the arena. Findekáno raised his head, incapable of containing his curiosity, and Nolofinwë took full advantage of his son’s distraction. He feigned a movement to the right, and Findekáno fell into it, defending his right. Nolofinwë attacked him from the left, then, and Findekáno caught out of his guard fell to the floor ungracefully. Nolofinwë smiled over his head.

“Distraction will be your downfall,” he said, standing up and reaching a hand to his son.

Findekáno grunted but accepted it. “I know, I know…” He scrubbed his clothes and grinned up at his father. “But that was really incredible!” Findekáno tried to sound unashamed, even if it wounded his pride a little. Nolofinwë smiled openly, and that sight alone made many of the viewers gasp, for it was breathtaking.

“It was nothing. In time you will learn how to disarm your opponent with feigned attacks like that one, all you have to do is watch him closely...,” Nolofinwë was saying, but his son’s attention focused on something above his shoulder. “Are you listening, Finno?”

Turukáno had jumped the fence with Irissë in his arms and ran in their direction.

“Who are those?” He asked even before he stood beside Findekáno, putting the baby on the ground – it would do no good to pass her from one arm to another, she wouldn’t be happy either way.

Nolofinwë turned to see what had caught his boys’ attention, and his eyes fell straight into Fëanáro’s, standing on the highest stairs of the pit. Nolofinwë’s heart instantly stopped as if electrified by lightning. There he was. His beautiful half-brother, clad in sports clothes, his sons beside him dressed alike, a white fire burning so hot in his eyes Nolofinwë could see them glowing from a distance.

The whole pit held their breaths, as did Nolofinwë, for Fëanáro was a stunning sight to behold – and so were all his children. No, his heart hadn’t stopped, it had just skipped several beats and now was trying to catch up, racing like a wild stallion inside the cavity of his chest.

“Have you not met your uncle, Curufinwë Fëanáro, and his children?”

Nolofinwë heard Eönwë say behind him, and he breathed out slowly. He knew he was staring, but the force that dragged his eyes was too great to be fought, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from Fëanáro, who was also assessing him from afar. The golden light crowned his black mane from behind, silhouetting his tall, slim figure, and Nolofinwë thought none of the Valar ever looked so magnificent. He watched open-mouthed as one of his sons, the gray-haired one, touched his arm and said something. The wind betrayed the boy, for it carried his voice all the way down to the arena.

“Atar, are those our cousins?”

He sounded excited, however, not fearful or irritated by the “half” part of his new-found family. Nolofinwë wondered what Fëanáro could have told about his degenerate little brother to his sons, but none of them had disgust or contempt in their fair faces, only curiosity. None smiled, though, not even the hairy baby in Nelyafinwë’s arms – that red-haired beauty had got to be his eldest nephew. Tall and well-built like his father, blazing eyes shining like mithril.

Nolofinwë forced his eyes away from his brother and gave a sidelong glance at Findekáno and Turukáno, who also stared aghast to the family they’d never met. Of course, they would stare! Nolofinwë felt an unexpected urge to repress a snort that found the way from his chest to his throat. His lips twitched to control an inexplicable joy, and he was surprised by his own reaction. He was supposed to dread this encounter, especially because his sons could be derided by his half-brother’s children. But then, why did the boys’ expressions made him want to scream with laughter? Why wasn’t his heart heavy, but suddenly sparkled with renewed life?

Nolofinwë remembered with a jolt that the Valar’s herald was still there, with his fog-cloud eyes that reminded him of the coldest days of winter, observing him like a cunning wolf. Eönwë’s words now seemed to have died in the air that crackled between Fëanáro and him. Nolofinwë didn’t even know why Eönwë’s presence made him feel so uncomfortable since it was he who had trained both of them when they were younger.

And then, his heart jumped again, for he realized Turukáno had slipped from his eyesight and had approached his cousins, oblivious to the quarrel, the tension, only focusing on their equally intrigued expressions. The childish curiosity had gained on him, and Nolofinwë watched with a mix of despair and pride how the little one bowed graciously.

“Hello! My name is Turukáno Sarafinwë, and I am your nephew!” Turukáno sounded confident like Findekáno, and that surprised him even further. “I mean, half-nephew. Are you really Crown Prince Fëanáro?” The boy quickly added, now looking straight into Fëanáro’s eyes. He wasn’t usually this bold, but perhaps an understandable fascination had driven him. Nolofinwë couldn’t begrudge his youngest.

This is it, he thought, horror building in his stomach. This was the moment Fëanáro would show what little regard he truly had for his half-brother, the one who had dared to touch his lips, and how little he thought of Indis’ side of the family. Nolofinwë suddenly feared for his second-born to be treated with scorn and was about to interrupt the encounter before it was too late. He would fight Fëanáro if he had to.

But nothing of the sort happened. Fëanáro’s gaze rested longer than they should on Nolofinwë before he looked down at the boy speaking with his honest child’s voice. Nolofinwë’s heart was playing tricks with him today, for it skipped yet another beat when Fëanáro touched Turukáno’s black hair affectionately and raised the boy’s chin to him, and smiled. That same smile that could stop the Trees from shining for its glory.

“Well met, Turukáno. I am indeed Prince Fëanáro, and these are my sons,” Nolofinwë heard his brother’s melodious voice carry with the wind straight into his spine, his limbs, lungs, and loins. He shuddered, feeling his breath falter, and his entire body reacting to Fëanáro as if he was on fire. Nolofinwë stared unashamedly now, unable to move, when Eönwë spoke again, dragging him out of his stupor.

“The two Noldorin princes were the best of my apprentices. Perhaps they would like to give a demonstration?”

Nolofinwë whirled at the herald with wide, pleading eyes. Why? Why would he ask this? Did Eönwë suspect something? Was he that obvious? Eonwë cocked his head like an owl, his white, unearthly eyes staring at Nolofinwë, and then at Fëanáro, unblinkingly. It seemed like a simple request, and Nolofinwë knew they couldn’t possibly deny their former teacher, whatever his suspicions. Nolofinwë felt a warm hand brushing his fingers lightly, and turned to see Findekáno staring at him, sensing his inner turmoil. They stared at each other, a thousand words that didn’t have to be spoken. Of course, Findekáno would understand he had to do this, even if it caused him discomfort – yet that was not quite the word, was it?

“Yes, atar, please, I want to see it!” Turukáno had returned running to his side and stared at him, eyes as bright with excitement as before.

From a distance above him, he could hear his younger nephews pushing Fëanáro to do the same – which meant he was also hesitating, although Nolofinwë couldn’t guess why. Fëanáro was stronger than he, much more skilled… or at least he was when they were younger. Now they were of a height, had a similar constitution, and could easily face one another as equals.

Nolofinwë felt excitement bubbling in his belly like he hadn’t felt in years. Fëanáro, however, looked far from excited. His half-brother had a desperate look on his handsome face, as if he would do anything but enter that pit with him. Nolofinwë’s mouth dried as he imagined Fëanáro declining the contest out of pure spite. Fëanáro shared with Nelyafinwë, then, very much the same unvoiced look he and Findekáno had had.

His breath stopped when Fëanáro started descending the stairs, his sons behind him like personal guards. Oh, Valar, they were really doing this! Whatever he and his half-brother had until now, was about to change forever – Nolofinwë knew it with absolute certainty, though he didn’t know how. If it was for the best or not, that would remain to be seen. He swallowed, his parched throat hurt from the lack of water, but not only. Nolofinwë felt Findekáno tug his hand reassuringly before picking Irissë up from the ground and leaving him. The girl was covered in sand but looked as happy as a duckling in the water.

Fëanáro stepped inside the arena like a black panther, graceful and fell. Nolofinwë felt a pang of doubt. He shouldn’t do this. It was going to be a shameful defeat. Why had he agreed with it? He looked desperately at the grandstand where Findekáno and Turukáno stood side by side, and both smiled, instilling confidence. Even Irissë was looking at him with her adorable toothless smile. Their cousins had huddled close, and for once, they looked like one, united family.

Fëanáro approached him in silence and stood only a few meters apart. A few meters! This was the closest they had been in _decades_! Before Nolofinwë could assimilate that idea, Eönwë came between them, one arm raised as if it was an invisible line separating the opposing sides. Fëanáro bound his black mane with a strip of leather, and Nolofinwë thought he could smell the eucalyptus scent floating on the wind.

“Both of you remember the rules, I assume?” Eönwë asked quietly to their ears only. Nolofinwë nodded curtly, and his brother did the same. “The game is four rounds,” the herald’s voice rang like a trumpet in the air, so the whole gathering could hear him. “You need at least two points to win. Good luck!” He cut the air with his raised arm to indicate the match was on.

Opposite him, Fëanáro prepared a defending position. His knees were slightly bent to distribute the weight. Nolofinwë prepared also, arms in front of his body, ready to attack – or more likely, to defend the blows. They still hadn’t uttered a word, but slowly began the dance of wrestle. Fëanáro stepped to his right, getting a step closer, and, for a heartbeat, Nolofinwë was compelled to let him come closer. His instincts got the best of him, though, and he stepped to the left, putting (regrettable) distance between them once more.

The whole arena was quiet, their feet scratching the sand, the only sound that carried. They circled each other for several minutes, and Nolofinwë couldn’t help but admire the incredible sight he had in front of him. Fëanáro was ridiculously beautiful when he was concentrated, and that in itself was a problem. Nolofinwë tried to shove a thousand lewd thoughts that popped inside his mind. His brother shirtless, the taste of his sweat, the feel of his skin… Eru be damned, it was fated: he was going to lose.

Surely, fast as a lynx, Fëanáro jumped and, with movements too fast to be seen, he pushed Nolofinwë with all the strength of his arms and shoulders, but with one leg planted firmly behind his thigh. Nolofinwë was instantly unbalanced and had only time to curse before his back hit the ground heavily, with Fëanáro on top of him. He gasped with the impact and felt the heaviness of his brother’s forearm on his chest.

That single touch burned him, and Nolofinwë unconsciously brushed Fëanáro’s elbow, trying to alleviate the pressure on his ribcage. Nolofinwë opened his eyes, and Fëanáro stared at him, pupils wide, his upper body heaving with quick pants. Fëanáro’s lips parted, and his diamond gaze seared inside Nolofinwë’s cornea. The world stopped for what it seemed an eternity, and yet Nolofinwë could have stayed as they were for Ages uncounted.

It lasted an eternity and nothing at all. Before too soon, Fëanáro had stood up and reached out a hand. Nolofinwë ignited with his brother’s touch, and he _b_ _urned_. He wished, not for the first time, he could rip Fëanáro’s clothes and fuck him senseless then and there, in front of everyone – and that thought alone made his length swell and stiffen. But his brother had already returned to their initial position, and Nolofinwë was forced to do the same. Eönwë raised his arm in Fëanáro’s direction to indicate his first point. Nolofinwë vaguely noticed loud cheers from Fëanáro’s children (and many others, no doubt friendly to his brother and his household). He couldn’t manage to look at the boys now. Before Eönwë gave the sign for the second round, he lifted his shirt and wiped the sweat off his face with it, exposing his belly and chest to the cool breeze. He prayed to all the Valar no one would notice how hard he was.

Eönwë signaled, and they circled each other again. But Fëanáro had gotten distracted with something – Nolofinwë couldn’t guess what could possibly divert his brother’s attention but took the opportunity. He did the same thing he had done with Findekáno, a feint to the left, to which Fëanáro fell and raised a knee to defend a possible blow – that never came. Nolofinwë gave an unconscious little smile. With a swift movement, he pushed Fëanáro’s leg aside with his body and entered to grab him by the waist; agile as a feline, Nolofinwë turned and pressed his back against Fëanáro’s chest while pulling him up to his shoulder. His brother, perceiving the intent, tried to prevent him, but Nolofinwë was stronger, it seemed, and brought Fëanáro down with him.

Nolofinwë gave a triumphant, blinding smile, both for the partial victory and for the exhilarating experience of pinning Fëanáro under him. His brother was flushed, disheveled, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Nolofinwë had been more than half-hard since the wrestle began, and now his entire body throbbed, blood rushed through his veins like lava, his erection hardly disguised by the long shirt. But Fëanáro was clearly annoyed, deep frown in his brows, perhaps because of the closeness of their bodies, their shared sweat dripping in each other’s faces. Nolofinwë reached out his hand with a competitive grin, but Fëanáro didn’t return it. No, his annoyance seemed to have increased, and Nolofinwë’s throat dried once more, ever intimidated by his brother’s presence.

They did two more rounds. Nolofinwë won the third with a counter-attack by grabbing him from behind and forcing them both to the ground. Fëanáro landed heavily with his back against Nolofinwë’s chest, and he welcomed the pain that took the breath from his lungs. Somewhere in his dazed mind, Nolofinwë knew it was impossible for Fëanáro not to have noticed his length pressing against the taut buttocks. Indeed, Fëanáro stood up as if he had been bitten by a snake, and turned to face him with eyes so wide, face full of unnamed distress that Nolofinwë was taken aback. That, and his brother’s sudden savagery, made him careless, which gave Fëanáro the advantage again.

His brother threw him down and, somehow, during the fall, Fëanáro had managed to grab both Nolofinwë’s wrists and locked them above his head. Nolofinwë could feel the fast thump-thump against his own heart, and Fëanáro panted noisily, nostrils flared like a wounded beast; their lips were at a kissing distance, breaths mingling in each other’s mouths. For the first time, Nolofinwë noticed the strange look inside his brother’s hazed eyes. He didn’t recognize at first but, once Nolofinwë twitched under the uncomfortable position, the slight movement made Fëanáro’s hips roll on top of him. He felt, then, his brother’s burgeoning length matching his own, and Nolofinwë’s breath sucked in surprise.

Nolofinwë half-closed his eyes in rapture, the same lust to match his brother’s filled him until it ached. He could hear the deafening sound of his blood gushing through his body. Nolofinwë bit his lips to suppress a gasp of pleasure and saw how Fëanáro’s eyes already darkened with lust. Lust. For him. Nolofinwë had to repress the moan that wanted to escape his throat. He forced it down and licked his lips, and watched as Fëanáro followed the slight movement of his tongue.

“Well done, Princes!” Interjected Eönwë with his stormy voice.

Fëanáro startled and jumped up, leaving Nolofinwë cold where his body had been. His brother didn’t help him up this time, and Nolofinwë forced his limbs to stand, pushing the shirt down to cover the evidence of his arousal. He looked up at Fëanáro, and their gazes locked. His brother looked wild and fey, ever so beautiful, starbright eyes shining upon him. Eönwë spoke again and broke the spell. It was impossible not to listen to the herald’s potent voice.

“As each has won a round, I call it a tie! Really well done, both of you!” He clapped loudly, and the cheers from the crowd followed. Nolofinwë threw his boys a smile as they waved at him, screaming. Their cousins were also cheering encouragements.

Nolofinwë looked at his brother again. “Well fought,” Nolofinwë managed to say with a small smile that quickly died on his lips.

Fëanáro’s features were troubled, and the frown hadn’t disappeared. Instead of replying, Fëanáro threw him a haughty look and turned on his heels, leaving the arena at the farthest point, stepping away from him and from his children, even. Nolofinwë watched him go and saw the same confusion on his nephews’ faces, who screamed at him to come back. One of them, startlingly beautiful with Fëanáro’s features stamped on his face and the same black mane, meant to go after their father, but Nelyafinwë stopped him with one movement and soft words.

Nolofinwë approached the gallery and returned the proud smile his boys gave him. Even Irissë giggled for no reason, and he ruffled her hair affectionately. Nolofinwë noticed, however, Findekáno couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder to his elder cousin, as if feeling the trouble of his heart. Could he really? Nolofinwë would ask him about that later. Now he had a more urgent thing to do.

“Well met, Nelyafinwë,” he called, and the red-haired turned his brilliant mithril eyes on him.

“It is my pleasure Prince Nolofinwë,” the young man bowed respectfully, with a soft, low pitched voice. Not the country boy, then. Nolofinwë smiled, and some of the children caught their breaths with the sight.

“No formalities between us, please, nephew.”

Nelyafinwë bowed his head gracefully and flashed a white-teethed smile in return. “As you wish, Uncle.”

Nolofinwë was pleased. This polite, handsome man seemed perfectly capable.

“I know it’s maybe too much to ask, but I need to speak with your father alone. Would you watch over your cousins?”

“Of course! It will be a pleasure to finally spend some time with our family,” Nelyafinwë gave him an enigmatic smile that made Nolofinwë doubt his nephew’s intention. All of them smiled like little wolves, and the fact that neither of his sons could keep their eyes off the Fëanarion cousins made it no easier. He had no choice but to trust him. So he nodded and put a hand on Findekáno’s shoulder, forcing his eldest to stop staring at his cousin and face him instead.

“Take care of your brothers. I don’t know how long this is going to take, but I don’t want to be interrupted.

“Don’t worry, atar. We will be all right. Our cousins are here,” as Findekáno finished the sentence, he gave the sweetest of smiles and slid his gaze to Nelyafinwë once more. With his peripheral vision, he saw his nephew smiling back at his son, and his heart relaxed.

“All right. Be good, both of you, and don’t lose sight of Irissë, or else I will never let you out of your chambers again. Am I clear?”

“Yes, atar,” they answered at the same time.

Color spread on Findekáno’s neck and cheeks, and Nolofinwë was amused with the impression the cousins made on one another. He blazed another dazzling smile at the children and looked longer at Findekáno. His eldest reached out a hand, Nolofinwë took it and squeezed it, and walked away fast, not daring to run until he had reached the palace. As he had predicted, he saw Fëanáro walking from their father’s study to the pathway that led to Míriel’s secret garden. Nolofinwë’s heart leaped violently, and he heard himself speak before he could even think.

“Fëanáro!”

His brother halted and whirled, and their eyes met. It didn’t matter to Nolofinwë who had sought out who. They now stood facing each other, and, this time, Nolofinwë wasn’t going to let him run away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like what you read, let me know! All comments are much appreciated! :)
> 
>  **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Canafinwë (Káno, Macalaurë) - Maglor  
> Turkafinwë (Turko, Tyelkormo, Tyelko) - Celegorm  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin
> 
> Findekáno (Finno) - Fingon  
> Turukáno (Turko) - Turgon  
> Irissë - Aredhel


	22. Sorting things out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You were waiting for it, and here it is! Finally, the long-awaited (and well-deserved) talk between the two brothers!
> 
> Thank you so much to those who have motivated me so far, with unrelenting encouragement, through your wonderful comments! <3

Fëanáro shivered. That voice… How could it be that _that_ voice came from his little brother? He had heard it on the arena, and if he hadn’t seen Nolofinwë’s lips move, he would have deemed it impossible. A low, sensual voice that had cut through him like silk, and now had spoken his name. Damned be all the Valar! Another single word uttered from that mouth, and Fëanáro would be completely undone! He stared at Nolofinwë as if his brother had emerged out of a cocoon, only to become more beautiful, more than he could put into words.

Black hair silky as his voice, blue-diamond eyes piercing him with such intensity, he felt his head pulsed with the sudden rush of blood. The crude linen shirt, soaked in sweat, plastered against Nolofinwë’s skin and made the lines of his stomach and chest painfully visible. And those lips. Fëanáro swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Those lips.

They glared mutely at each other, neither knowing exactly what to say. Nolofinwë’s blue eyes sparkled with something similar to defiance, very much like the little boy he had once been, and still, Fëanáro couldn’t speak. His voice was lost to admiration, fastened on his brother’s enthralling figure. How could he have changed so much and still provoke the same frisson on him? He was as handsome as Fëanáro had ever seen him, yes, but so much more. He looked like a king. Like Father. That thought sent little tremors throughout his spine.

Fëanáro didn’t know why his brother had come after him, or why he was silent for so long. Oh, yes, he hadn’t forgotten the feel of Nolofinwë’s iron-hard length pressed against his buttocks, the way his eyes fluttered shut, and he bit his lips irresistibly when Fëanáro’s own matching hardness rolled on top of him. But what was the meaning of it? Had it all been a feigned display of pleasure? He searched his brother’s face and found no trace of mockery, or of disgust, as he had feared. In fact, Nolofinwë looked as nervous as he. But why?

“Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë called again in his deep voice, savoring his name as he would savor wine, slow and intimate, sparkling blue eyes locked on his. The hair on Fëanáro’s neck and arms stood up, and he cursed inwards. No matter how long had passed, when around Nolofinwë, he still had no control over his body whatsoever.

“I came to talk," his brother continued. “It seems like an eternity since we last did that.”

An eternity and over. But what could they possibly talk about now, after decades of unrelenting silence? They were strangers to one another. Nolofinwë had married someone Fëanáro despised for what she represented, and Fëanáro had secluded himself from all palatial life.

Ah. Yes. He undoubtedly had come to lecture Fëanáro on his deviant preferences. Of course. What could he expect from Indis’ son, after all? With an irritated sigh, Fëanáro forced himself to turn away and enter his mother’s garden. If his half-brother wanted to speak to him, let it be on _his_ terms, where no one else could hear the hateful words. Nolofinwë followed him, as expected, inside the secretive garden in silence, carving a hole in his back with a hot stare. When Fëanáro spun to see his brother’s face, there was a frown on those sculpted features. Nolofinwë twisted his hand in front of his body, nervous fingers rubbing on each other. So many years, so many things unsaid…

A particular thought suddenly hovered over his mind: the thought that maybe, Nolofinwë had done tried to call his attention when he was younger in a very non-brotherly way. But now Fëanáro was being forced to confront all his hopes and fears, it seemed his conclusions had been a far-fetched hope. Nothing more than a dream. He waited. If Nolofinwë wanted to talk, let the initiative be his, for Fëanáro couldn’t manage to make his tongue and throat obey him. Nolofinwë perhaps sensed his hesitation and took a step closer, a hand raised as if he wanted to touch.

For a second, Fëanáro was inclined to take it, but a little voice inside his head told him to be cautious with the politician his brother had become. If he had come to humiliate him for what happened on the pit, this was not going to be a nice talk. Nolofinwë had a lofty expression about him, and his delay enraged Fëanáro to no end. He wanted this to be over with!

“Well?” Fëanáro asked him at last, finding his impatience was greater than his lack of speech.

His brother, however, recoiled as if he had been struck and took a step back. His features, once soft and wistful, changed to a cold, unreadable mask.

“I see I am not welcome." What? How had he come to that conclusion? “You will listen to me, nonetheless,” Nolofinwë declaimed like the Prince he was, haughtiness pouring down his words.

Fëanáro felt a spike of anger pierce through his chest. Where was the sweet man who would never speak to him like this? Ah, no! Fëanáro wouldn’t be cowered by his younger brother, no more than he was by his own father!

“I will listen if it is worth my time,” he said flatly, and Nolofinwë flinched with his tone. Gods be damned, this was not how things were supposed to happen! Had he really expected Nolofinwë to come here and declare undying love for him? Fool!

“What I have to say requires you are apt to listen. If you are not, it will make things a lot more difficult for you.” Nolofinwë definitely looked like Finwë now, and Fëanáro wanted to punch him. How dared he treat him as if he was a mere subject? _He_ was the Crown Prince!

“I do not answer to you, half-brother! You can stop playing the politician. Say whatever you want to say and begone!” Fëanáro gnarled, his breast rose and fell with quickened breathing. But as soon as he vocalized those words, he immediately regretted it, for the hurt in Nolofinwë’s eyes was nearly unbearable.

Fëanáro didn’t know what had hurt his brother more: the angry tone he would never have used with his little háno, or how he had unthinkingly called attention to Nolofinwë’s “half” part of his heart – which was not true, not true at all! Nolofinwë had his entire heart, his whole soul, and all of his being! Indeed, he saw in growing horror how his brother’s mask shattered briefly as he winced, the apple of his throat moved slowly as if Fëanáro’s words had been poison.

“I didn’t come here to be insulted!” Nolofinwë retorted, nonetheless, as proud and arrogant as before, quickly recomposing his handsome face to that detested cold mask.

“Why did you come here, then? If it was not to pick up a fight with me, then I can’t guess what other reason it might be!” Fëanáro ran a hand on his hair self-consciously. Guilty.

But Nolofinwë hesitated. He had a deep frown between his perfect brows and looked down briefly, regathering his thoughts.

“You… can’t guess? Not even remotely?” His voice softened again, and his absurd blue eyes, brimmed with the radiance of the stars, made Fëanáro want to weep.

He tried to steady his breathing, a hand on his breast, where it hurt the most. How could this be happening? He wanted to kiss his brother, not fight him! He pulled himself together and straightened his shoulders, which he hadn’t noticed had been curved in a hump.

“If you came here to shame me, Nolofinwë, save your breath or be quick!” Fëanáro tried to enunciate with clarity, but his voice trembled anyway.

His tone was not raised in anger anymore, but the coldness in them inflamed Nolofinwë to an outburst as he took a step forward again.

“Shame you? I don’t know what in the hells you are talking about!” Nolofinwë waved an impatient hand in front of him, and Fëanáro couldn’t help noticing the elegance of those long fingers.

“How can I possibly shame you more than you have shamed yourself?” At Fëanáro’s indignant look, he continued, not giving time for an answer. “Yes, you’ve done it yourself when you ran off with Nerdanel and left m-Father behind like an unwanted dog! You’ve let him suffer your spite, no words for years!”

“Do not include Nerdanel on this!” Fëanáro hollered before he could think.

It didn’t matter how estranged they were nowadays, or how their marriage was inevitably crumbling to pieces. It was Nolofinwë’s fault he had married her in the first place!

“Why are you bringing this up now? It’s been decades since I have blamed myself for what I did, and Father forgave me, he understood! It was also Nerdanel’s wishes, and I am not going to let you put the weight of this blame on me again!” Fëanáro couldn’t keep out the emotion that made him yell and move his hands angrily, pointing an accusing finger to his brother.

“So, she wished for your whole family to be cut out of your life?” Nolofinwë retorted, and he was right to be incredulous. “No, Fëanáro, I cannot believe that! It was _you_! And what do you mean by bringing this up now? What other reason is there to blame you?” His brother frowned again, doubting the whole reason for this nonsensical discussion as if he had been missing a piece of vital information.

“You know perfectly well! And don’t change subjects!” Fëanáro didn’t believe Nolofinwë could play dumb. “I did what I wanted, free and unbound! Unlike you!” He waved a tremulous hand in his brother’s direction.

Fëanáro thought he was no doubt possessed by an evil spirit. How could he be so vengeful? He didn’t want to fight Nolofinwë, but at the same time, he couldn’t just overlook the challenge in his brother’s words – although he knew, deep down, he was provoking them himself. What was he expecting? Did he want Nolofinwë to come to blows with him? Before he could answer, his brother took another step closer.

“If you are going to mention my marriage, I warn you, do not,” Nolofinwë’s furious eyes flashed indigo, a sharp edge behind them.

“It was not I who brought it up, but that would be a great topic indeed. Anairë, brother? Really?” His voice was full of disdain and jealousy he couldn’t bite off.

That was the core of it all, wasn’t it? He hated Anairë for what she represented: the possibility of love in Nolofinwë’s heart. And here his brother was, about to defend his pious wife’s honor because Fëanáro couldn’t hold his damned tongue! If he heard Nolofinwë praising her, he would strike him.

“She was – is – perfectly suitable for me.” Nolofinwë clipped at his own mistake, trying to ingrain his speech with a calm he didn’t possess. “As you well know, her position as the daughter of the High King-”

“Oh, of course, ever the politician! I don’t agree she is _suitable_ for you, and I can’t tell you enough how much it disgusted me the choice!” Fëanáro spat and bit his lips until it drew blood. The jealousy oozed out of him like a festering wound.

“ _Disgusted_ you? And who do you think you are to tell me such things?” Nolofinwë growled and came closer to him until their noses could almost touch. Fëanáro admitted, somewhere in his brain, this was incredibly exciting. He had been feeling his length harden with each explosive word, and the proximity to his brother was exhilarating.

“Is this even about my marriage?” Nolofinwë spoke again, and Fëanáro felt sweet breath brush lightly over his mouth. His cock jolted in impatience.

“What about yours?” Nolofinwë continued. “Don't be a hypocrite! I also think you married someone who is unsuited for you, yet I never said a word because you cut me off from your life like a broken twig!” He screamed the last sentence, uncaring if their voices would be heard, and Fëanáro flinched with the violence of that confession.

“But if you want a reason to hate me, Fëanáro, let it be the right reason, the truth!”

Given the way the conversation had gone so far, it was the last thing he had expected. With a brusque movement, Nolofinwë cupped his face in both hands and crashed against his mouth like a shooting star. It was so sudden Fëanáro didn’t even have time to react. As Nolofinwë broke the kiss, he felt his fëa fluttering inside his hröa. He was dumbstruck, at a complete loss for words. His brother’s mouth was moving again, saying things he couldn’t grasp the meaning of.

“Now you can be as disgusted as you please, but at least I had the courage to say what my hea-”

“Shut up,” Fëanor murmured, heart finally finding its pace again at a galloping speed.

Nolofinwë had broken the dam, and he was unable to restrain the flood of unbelief that engulfed him. He needed to feel that mouth again, taste the truth of what had just happened. Fëanáro needed another kiss, so he took it. He cupped Nolofinwë’s nape like he had dreamed of doing so many times and smacked his mouth against his brother’s.

For one heartbeat, Nolofinwë didn’t respond, mouth opened in his last word, but Fëanáro didn’t give him time to think, either, and stuck his tongue inside in a desperate drought. Nolofinwë melted in his embrace like water, and they clung tightly enough to take his breath away. Ah, Eru…! At last! A sublime sensation of dizziness invaded Fëanáro’s every nerve, all the colors in the world exploded behind his eyelids. The kiss was far from gentle as their teeth clattered, but they were _kissing_ , and they ate the other’s mouths with the hunger of the famished.

The warmth and softness of his brother’s tongue pushing against his mouth sent a bolt of desire to his belly, his loins, and his length pulsed with increased lust. Nolofinwë’s hands tightened on his back, fisted his hair, pulled, as he plummeted himself, unresisting. The kiss was everything Fëanáro had ever hoped for and a thousand times more, for it was accompanied by an emotion so strong it swelled his heart to a bursting point. He withdrew from it with his throat closed, overcome by such powerful passion it left him speechless.

Fëanáro felt tears prickling behind his closed eyes, and he knew they would run if he opened them. He didn’t care. He had the one thing his heart had long desired. Behind tear-blurred vision, he was graced with a disbelieving smile that played on his brother’s lips. He watched, enspelled, as Nolofinwë’s mouth curled up beautifully and came to rest on his cheek, wiping the streak of tears with loving kisses.

Fëanáro raised his hand to touch his brother’s masculine features, equally incredulous. He traced a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and buried the fist in the silky, raven hair. It felt cool under his touch, and he let the thick strands run through his fingers, fascinated with their density. When their eyes searched for contact again, Fëanáro’s breath sucked in, for what he saw was a reflection of his own soul.

“Fëanáro, I…” Nolofinwë began, also running his hand through Fëanáro’s hair and shaking his head in denial.

“Don’t.” He put the finger on those sculpted lips. “It’s my fault,” he exhaled. “I have wronged you gravely, and I am sorry. For everything.” The last words came out with a broken whisper.

Nolofinwë shook his head insistently and grabbed Fëanáro’s nape. “No! No, you spoke the truth! I just… Oh, Valar, I just… Had I known! I-”

“I know, Nolvo, I know.”

Nolofinwë shuddered under his touch, and he, who still had strands of his brother’s hair tangled between his fingers, moved to put them behind a perfectly pointed ear. He felt immersed in a heatwave of white light, Nolofinwë’s eyes fastened on him, hands resting on his waist.

“I have dreamed of this moment for so long…!” Nolofinwë barked a laugh that resembled a sob and flung his arms around his neck, burying his nose in his hair.

Fëanáro held him as tightly as his clutched heart. After long minutes inhaling Nolofinwë’s lavender scent, his brother chuckled, and his breath ghosted over Fëanáro’s throat, making him run an unconscious hand from Nolofinwë’s flanks to his hips and yank him forward. Oh, yes, he could feel Nolofinwë’s hardness against his thigh, so he moved his own hips and watched, lusciously, how Nolofinwë let out a surprised gasp at the joining of their erections. A sweep of fire bathed over him to the point it ached.

“Fëanáro!” 

His name, just his name, muttered hotly in his brother’s compelling voice, drove out a soft sigh from deep within him.

“Hush,” he whispered hoarsely and swallowed with difficulty. “There will be time later.”

That said, he plunged hungrily again, and kissed Nolofinwë hard and deep, until neither of them could breathe. Nolofinwë’s hands roamed over him, pulled unwanted clothes apart, unlaced his white shirt until the flat of his palm touched Fëanáro’s bare chest. They stopped in astonishment, for the contact speared through both of them, one body to another, and build an electrified connection. Nolofinwë shot him a questioning look as if this was somehow his own doing. But Fëanáro smiled broadly because their souls recognized it. This was meant to be.

The exchange was so intense neither spoke for several minutes. His soul sang with the love that wanted to engulf them both. Until regaining his own mind, Nolofinwë leaned forward and kissed Fëanáro passionately, the soft touch of their tongues sliding, pushing deeper, discovering the shape of the other’s cavity. Fëanáro moaned into the mouth that tasted of bliss. With trembling fingers, Nolofinwë traced the muscles on his torso, and Fëanáro felt his rough touch. His brother’s hands were calloused, like his own, and that thought aroused to an impossible new height.

Nolofinwë dived his head to trace the same path with his lips, and Fëanáro shuddered, unable to hold back a cry when his brother closed teeth around a pebbled nipple. The bite made his length throb, and he brought Nolofinwë’s head back up before he would be undone by nothing else than sweet wetness. His brother’s hands came back to warm his chest, and he covered them with his own. They shared another wordless kiss, as savage and passionate as the first. He tore Nolofinwë’s shirt apart, ripping the fabric and exposing his brother’s muscled torso to his touch.

His daft fingers unlaced his brother’s breeches to show only the tip of Nolofinwë’s length. With eyes glazed with lust, his brother hissed when Fëanáro trailed the soft skin and ran a thumb lazily to spread the pre-come over its head, as fascinated as before. Fëanáro dipped his head and licked the slit, driving out a throaty moan from Nolofinwë. He rocked his hips, seeking full contact, but Fëanáro withdrew as quickly as he had dived. He threw Nolofinwë a sly smile, shoving down his brother’s pants and freeing the engorged shaft. Nolofinwë took a step back to kick breeches and shoes off.

Fëanáro stared, unabashed. “You are glorious, little brother,” he muttered thickly, sweeping his eyes over his brother’s body and biting his lower lip in an uncontrollable boost of lust.

Fëanáro’s hardness throbbed painfully, and he quickly unlaced his own leggings, shoved them off, and pulled his brother back to him by the waist until their lengths pulsed maddeningly against one another. They gasped in each other’s mouths at the delicious heat that spread through their loins. Their hands sought out backs and hairs while they devoured one another. Fëanáro felt a sudden urge to eat the whole of Nolofinwë up and simply watch as he was consumed by passion. Without a second thought, he knelt in front of his brother, gazes locked in a way that would melt Arda for its potency.

Nolofinwë’s pupils were blown wide, and Fëanáro watched his reactions as he left a wet track from the navel to the crown of the shaft. Fëanáro misted over the groin further down, and the skin of Nolofinwë’s thighs broke into gooseflesh. He closed his lips over the tip of the swollen hardness, and his brother wheezed, fisting his hair hard. Yes, he knew this was something no woman would have given him – as it was a forbidden act for them. But Fëanáro was determined to drive away all thought of wrongness from his brother’s mind (and from his own), so he opened his mouth wider until his nose almost touched skin. A delicious low moan rumbled in his brother’s chest. Fëanáro caressed the side of his long legs and hummed softly, so the vibration made Nolofinwë tighten the grip in his head. He found that ferocity incredibly arousing, and he stroked his own aching need in tandem with his mouth.

He sucked harder, back and forth from the tip almost to the root, and watched as Nolofinwë threw his head back and parted his lips, body trembling in looming bliss. That was the most enticing sight he had ever beheld. Fëanáro took him deep to the back of his throat, and felt as Nolofinwë grew impossibly taut like a bowstring, and cried out as he convulsed. Hot fluid spurted inside Fëanáro’s mouth as he held his brother’s body, steadying him as his hips jerked involuntarily forward in wave after wave of ecstasy.

Fëanáro withdrew with a last lick, and Nolofinwë sighed, going down on his knees in front of him, lashes fanned against his cheekbones like black moths. Nolofinwë kissed him again, hard and demanding, in a whole-skin embrace. He stroked Nolofinwë’s strong naked back, traced his fingers on his spine, his hipbones and buttocks, as he felt his brother’s length spring up against his belly once more. Nolofinwë licked his throat, his neck, jaw, and earlobe, and Fëanáro groaned and breathed out, incapable of containing any more. He needed to have Nolofinwë _now._

“Don’t move,” Fëanáro said as he stood up quickly and ran inside his mother’s old chambers.

He feared he wouldn’t find anything that could serve as a lubricant, and his brother would have to suffer without it. Luckily, a forgotten lamplight still held a little oil, and he coated his hands and length heavily with it. When he returned to the garden, Nolofinwë was sprawled on the grass like a burning offering, hair an inky pool underneath him. Fëanáro’s breath hitched with the mesmerizing sight.

He felt lightheaded, his blood rushed so fast it burned in his veins as if he was being flayed. The whole world narrowed to the magnificent Elf in front of him, and Fëanáro leaned over and covered Nolofinwë with hot kisses and bites, as he felt his brother’s upper body heave in increased ragged breaths. Fëanáro’s hands caressed his inner thighs, and he shivered when the touches reached further down. He deepened the kiss, insistently, and moved one finger to the entrance.

Nolofinwë’s back arched up with the intrusion, but Fëanáro didn’t stop until his brother let out a cry that petered out into a loud, delicious moan. Fëanáro laughed low in his ear and responded by grinding against his stomach. He added another finger, then another, and Nolofinwë bucked back, impaling himself on his fingers.

“Oh…. by the… gods! What on Earth… are you doing… with me?” He demanded, and Fëanáro smiled in his throat.

“I am claiming you as mine.”

A moan.

“Do you want that, brother? Are you mine?”

“I am yours! Take me, Fëanáro! Do it. _Now_!”

Fëanáro withdrew the fingers to stare down at his beautiful wanton brother, eyes almost purple with lust. He positioned himself and nudged his entrance, pausing to drink of the intoxicating sight that was Nolofinwë breathlessly waiting to be possessed. Fëanáro stroked his brother’s flushed erection slowly first, increasing the speed at the same time he slid into the tensed opening. And then... Ah! He couldn’t believe he was in! The tightness! Nolofinwë couldn’t help a keen cry when he was so utterly filled, and light perspiration broke on his skin and upper lip. Fëanáro waited, with held breath, for Nolofinwë to adjust.

After a few seconds had passed and Nolofinwë still grimaced in pain, he stroke his brother’s length faster and leaned over him to lick the white column of his throat. At last, Nolofinwë’s muscles unclenched just enough, and Fëanáro withdrew a little and slid in again. He kept a slow pace at first until he angled himself right, and Nolofinwë howled and pushed back, digging fingers on his hair. All the resolve Fëanáro had of restrainment, then, shattered like glass.

He buried himself to the hilt, and Nolofinwë thrashed underneath him. Nothing, nothing could be more beautiful than this! Fëanáro released the tight grip on his brother’s hip and cupped his cheek, forcing his eyes open. They dived inside each other, souls touching, resounding, the world tilting, and it was like nothing he’d experienced before. It was not just the ecstasy of the act, but something primeval, so utterly out of his control, he felt his fëa quiver as if it sought to escape his body. Nolofinwë must have been feeling the same, for his body glowed with a sheen light, and a single tear escaped his unblinking eyes to disappear in the pool of his raven hair.

A powerful surge of love and lust took over Fëanáro, and he plunged ferociously, muffling both their cries in rough kisses as his brother matched his frantic pace bucking back in wild abandon, nails clawing into his back and thighs, demanding more as if by going deeper, they could merge into one.

At last, Nolofinwë squeezed his eyes shut, and his jaw dropped in a wordless cry that gained the air at the same time his body snapped like the broken string of a harp. He shuddered and came in the slickness of their joined, sweaty bodies. Fëanáro, already tottering on the brink, felt the muscles clenching around him in waves of excruciating ecstasy; he slammed harder, faster two, three times. He groaned and flung his head back, unable to control his body as the blissful orgasm took over his senses.

Fëanáro collapsed, forehead touching the damp crook of Nolofinwë’s neck, while both their bodies twitched and throbbed with the aftershock. When Fëanáro felt his arms could sustain him again, he raised in his elbows and extricated himself from Nolofinwë’s sated body. They groaned with the loss, but his brother stretched his long legs with a huge, lazy smile. Fëanáro chuckled, feeling satisfyingly spent, and leaned closer to kiss him softly.

They soared through the nirvana in silence for a long while, and Fëanáro’s mind, completely numb with the exertion, drifted peacefully for he knew not how long. When he opened his eyes again, Nolofinwë stared at him adoringly, brushing the shape of his brows with feathery caresses. Fëanáro glared back, understanding inside his brother’s luminous blue eyes the need to confirm this was _real_ , not a mere fantasy.

Nolofinwë drove down to draw the shape of his lips, eyes glistening. “Finally,” he whispered.

“Yes…” Fëanáro breathed out, and pulled Nolofinwë’s head to his chest, inhaling the intoxicating scent on his brother’s scalp. “Finally, little brother.”

Nolofinwë’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Isn’t it strange?” He turned his face upward to look into his eyes. At Fëanáro’s inquisitive raised brow, he continued. “That we both wanted the same thing, yet neither knew?”

“Strange, yes… and absurdly belated,” Fëanáro planted a light kiss on his brother’s lips. “Had I known, it would have cost me a great deal less of suffering.”

At that last word, Nolofinwë stood on his elbow and shot him a worried look. “What do you mean?”

Fëanáro’s eyes averted him, but Nolofinwë’s hand rose to cup his chin, and he was compelled to stare into the searing blue light again.

“Please, tell me! I need to understand how this came to be, for if you think it was my fault, I will never forgive myself.”

“It was _my_ fault, Nolvo… I-” He moistened his lips and bit the lower one. “Do you remember that day… when I went back to Mahtan’s forges?”

“The day you ran away, you mean?” Nolofinwë said softly, a wry smile playing on his lips, but Fëanáro frowned with the memory. He had run away, and not just once. “The day you discussed with Father about your supposed marriage to Anairë? The day I found you crying in the garden, and when we shared a bottle of Telerin harvest? And the one I kissed you? Yes, I have never forgotten it. It has haunted me ever since.”

Fëanáro’s heart faltered. He widened his eyes. “ _You_ kissed me? Oh, brother, I had always thought you were oblivious to it! I blamed myself for not being able to control-” He sat up and ran nervous hands on his hair, exhaling noisily. “Have you… Did you wanted… then?”

Nolofinwë shot him a serious look. “If you are asking me since when I started feeling things for you, the answer is always.” Fëanáro’s heart swelled and clenched, two impossible movements at the same time that tore a groan from his throat. “I have always loved you, brother, since the first day I saw you when I was but a babe.”

Oh, Eru, that was… he couldn’t believe all his deprivation, all his anguished suffering…! Fëanáro’s throat closed, and he swallowed hard as a stubborn tear threatened to drop from his closed lashes. Nolofinwë’s gentle fingers caressed his cheek, and he opened his eyes again, only to be enveloped by a gaze so full of longing it made him tangle his hand in the base of his brother’s skull and pull him close for a long, passionate kiss, wishing it would drive all their wasted past away.

“I have loved you also, brother, too long to be counted in years,” he whispered on his brother’s lips. Too lonely in the desperation of his barren heart.

“Why have you turn your back on me, then?”

Fëanáro grimaced at the words, but he knew them for the truth. “I thought I was putting necessary distance between us. I thought… after that kiss, I thought you hated me.” Nolofinwë’s entire face went wide with shock.

“How, Fëanáro, _how_ could you ever think I would hate you? All I wanted to do is help you!” He sat up also. The unspoken words, held back for so long, seemed to finally have found their way out, and Fëanáro let him unburden. “I was your best friend, your right-hand man! You have no idea what it felt like to be abandoned, forgotten as if the time we had shared meant nothing!”

Fëanáro couldn’t look at him. “No… I don’t. And you can’t possibly know how much I am sorry for it. I have fought against my decision since the minute I made it, and I have blamed myself ever since for a great many things. Not being able to tell you how I felt was not the least of it.”

“But you could have, brother!” Nolofinwë insisted, placing a hand over his heart. “I still can’t believe you couldn’t trust me with it.”

“Could I really? I thought I had all the confirmation I needed. You jumped out of bed like a scalded cat, and, the next day, I found you courting a girl!”

Nolofinwë stared agape.

“A girl… what girl? What are you talking about?”

“In the gardens. I saw you giving her a flower.” He felt ridiculous. It _was_ ridiculous to bring this up; the phrase could belong to a youngling smitten maiden, and Fëanáro almost laughed hysterically at his own jealousy. Almost.

“A flow…? Oh, Varda’s fucking tits! _She_ gave me that! Gods, I cannot believe you thought I was courting Almawen!” Nolofinwë threw his head back and laughed out loud.

Fëanáro looked at him, surprised because the name should have evoked something familiar. His face and silence must have told he knew now as much as he had before.

“Almawen, brother! The Queen’s servant! She is always trailing after Laríel.”

He frowned. The information meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t say he remembered the girl, since his father had an enormous quantity of servants, and the Queen even more so.

“Well, she is one of my mother’s handmaiden, I understand why you wouldn’t have noticed her. I didn’t, until that day,” he smiled, seemingly amused with Fëanáro’s words. “I wish you have told me this, anyway.”

“That’s not fair, you never told me anything either!”

“Well, yes… I thought you would find me disgusting. And that was something I could not bear.”

“Manwë’s balls…!" Fëanáro punched the soft earth, an idea suddenly nagging at the back of his mind. “How can it be that we were thinking and feeling the same, and be so utterly blind to each other’s sentiments? And I was once praised for my ability to read other people!”

“I don’t know,” Nolofinwë said thoughtfully. But he smiled, not quite grasping the grim path Fëanáro’s mind was treading. “All I do know is that we both have been idiots.”

At that, Fëanáro laughed loudly. “Agreed. But no more,” he smiled tenderly and leaned to taste those lips once more. But the idea of the Valar meddling with their lives didn’t leave him, settling firm roots in his heart. Nolofinwë withdrew from this kiss and stared at him.

“You are worried,” he stated, and draw a soothing finger over the crease in his brows.

Fëanáro opened his mouth and closed again. He wanted to tell Nolofinwë all of it, to be done with the secrets. But that also implied dragging him into his veiled quarrel with the Valar, and the last thing he wanted is putting their sight upon his beloved brother. Fëanáro lowered his head, thinking, trying to find the loophole of this all, but he couldn’t understand yet the full meaning of it.

“Don’t you dare to do this again, Fëanáro!” Nolofinwë growled, and he snapped his head up at the infuriated tone. His brother’s eyes were brimful of too long-kept hurt. “ _Talk_ to me!”

Fëanáro sighed noisily. Of course, Nolofinwë was right. There could be no more unspoken words between them.

“All right. We have a lot of catch up to do.”

He began, then retelling everything he could remember of his growing distrust of the Valar. First, the feeling of being watched since they were children, to which Nolofinwë, whose thumb had been drawing circles in his chest or fiddling with a lock of his hair, nodded.

“I have felt it also, but never considered it to be harmful.”

“In the beginning, neither did I, but it always unsettled me for some reason I could never explain.” Then, he filled Nolofinwë up with news from Rúmil and their many talks about Endor, which filled his brother’s eyes with wonder.

“You will have to tell me in much more detail the contents of those talks.”

“And I will, but not now. It is important for you to see the pattern as I do, or to tell me I am completely mad,” Fëanáro requested.

At last, Fëanáro told him about that day on Aulë’s forges, and the brutal violation that surely would have happened if he hadn’t fought back. He shared his fears and theories about how the Valar were controlling their lives from every angle, as if every animal, rock, and leaf on the land answered to them, sentient and omniscient, reporting on the Elves undoubtedly many deviations.

Nolofinwë listened intently, his burning gaze provoking a stiffening down below that Fëanáro couldn’t think about as he spoke of the Ainu’s disgusting fingers on his skin. It was an impossible feeling of revulsion for one and a strong desire for the other. When his tale was over, Nolofinwë put a warm hand on his thigh.

“I do not think you are mad, and this disturbs me greatly. We must speak with Father about it!”

Fëanáro humphed. “You are free to try. Father won’t listen, he never did, even when the subject was as smooth as the lives of the Elves under the Stars.”

“Smooth!” Nolofinwë snorted. “You know perfectly well Father never liked talking about that! But I see your point. What are we going to do, then?”

We. Suddenly everything fell in place, as it was supposed to be from the start. Fëanáro’s heart could have burst with joy right there, love seeping out of his pores like sweat.

“I don’t know yet,” Fëanáro brushed a light finger on his brother’s lips, aware of the addictive sweetness lingering on his tongue. “In any case, and as much as I hate the idea, we must go back to find our children and hope they haven’t picked up a hundred fights with each other for absolutely no reason.”

“And why in the hells would they do that?” Nolofinwë asked, raising a mildly offended brow.

“They are _our_ children, brother.”

Nolofinwë opened his mouth indignantly, and then, changing his mind, he shook his head, while laughter like rain rumbled in his chest, spiking a surge of desire through Fëanáro’s body. Again. He stood up before he, too, changed his mind and pounced on Nolofinwë like an animal.

***

Fëanáro came back to the garden naked as Eru had made him. Perfection in the flesh, his marble-like skin glowing with the water that dripped profusely from his soaked hair. When he stepped out, squeezing his black mane in a towel, he stopped abruptly and stared where Nolofinwë laid still naked on the grass, staring contently at the creeping dusk sky above them. Fëanáro shivered as Nolofinwë swept his blue eyes from his toe to his scalp, and wickedly moistened his lips. When their eyes met again, they both laughed.

Nolofinwë stood up and pulled him in for a long, deep kiss that made the towel fall to the grass, completely forgotten.

“You better stop, or I won’t be leaving this place ever again,” Fëanáro licked his own mouth and savored the still unmemorized flavor of his brother.

“I wish we didn’t have to, though.” Nolofinwë’s smile faded, and a crease had appeared in his beautiful features. “How on Arda are we going to do this?”

Fëanáro stared at him. It was a logical question. He had no idea how he would be able to conceal his love in a court where same-gender relations were not acceptable, let alone between close kin. The anxious look on his brother’s face told him Nolofinwë was wondering the same. Fëanáro brushed the back of his hand on the line of his brother’s jaw.

“I don’t know,” Fëanáro answered almost to himself, as he tugged back a strand of hair behind his ear, caressing the delicate shell. Nolofinwë turned to the touch and hummed low, sensual, and both bodies reacted, blood rushing to the already half-hard erections, making them stand proud.

“But you're right,” Fëanáro whispered huskily. “I won't be able to conceal anything when you look like this, so beautiful, so gloriously aroused.” _Mine_.

Nolofinwë chuckled, eyelashes fluttering close under the maddening caress, overcome by the upcoming wave of desire.

“And the Valar?” He pondered.

“We could go hand in hand to the top of Taniquetil, and shout from there, so that everyone will hear at once and we won’t be pestered with mindless gossip.” He smiled cheekily, but Nolofinwë threw him a look… That politician glare that told this was the stupidest of things to joke about.

“Of course, and if what you told me is indeed what they are doing, both of us will be dragged before the Máhanaxar to explain our promiscuity and then be separated, perhaps forever.”

“Never!” He growled possessively, all amusement left aside. “I won't let anyone stand in our way, do you understand me? You will walk by my side, as you should always have!”

Nolofinwë paused, touched deeply by the fierceness of those words. But this time sobriety spoke louder to him for the threat the Valar, and their unbound love, represented.

“It's all very nice, and a beautiful dream, brother, but you know this is not how it will work!” He fell silent, his gaze inwards, looking, searching.

When he looked at Fëanáro again, neither could speak, for the intensity that held the other could be cut with a knife.

“There is only one choice for us.”

“To lie,” Fëanáro guessed with a sneer.

“To _conceal_! To hide it from the world so our children can grow in peace and freedom!”

“Alleged peace and caging, you mean,” he retorted wryly. “And how do you suggest we do it? Because I won't restrain myself again! I don't want to hide who I am anymore, nor my real feelings for you.”

“Not even from our wives?” He asked, amused, and snorted at Fëanáro's curl of lips. “We can pretend we still hate each other,” he laughed, but Fëanáro tilted his head thoughtfully.

“That could work,” he mused.

“What? No! I was jesting! I am not going to pretend to hate you when I spent my entire life regretting I couldn't show my love for you! Not anymore, and not ever again!” He spoke hotly.

The passion in those words was almost as unbearable as the light that, at that moment, shone in Nolofinwë’s eyes. Fëanáro clutched his nape, wanting to take him down and drive into him mindlessly, all over again.

“I know, brother, for I feel the same.” He touched Nolofinwë's bare chest with his hand and felt the beating of his own heart in his brother's body, that same electrifying connection tingling on the tip of his fingers. “But, as you said, this might be the only way. It will help us… Conceal our love.”

“And our reproachable desire,” Nolofinwë said throatily as he took Fëanáro's hand and guided it to his engorged shaft, his eyes darkened with renewed lust.

“Oh yes, that too...” Fëanáro husked, looking down to where his hand enveloped his brother's soft skin, and he moaned softly at the inebriating sight.

Nolofinwë needed no further excuse and pushed him brutally against the bark of the old oak. Fëanáro gasped both from the impact as with the spike of hunger that roared in his blood; his brother ground against his swollen cock and groaned lustfully in his ear, driving away any other thought than the _here_ and _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: This chapter was heavily influenced by [Friends, Cousins, Lovers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739176/chapters/1375950), by Ann_arien, undoubtedly the best smut I've ever read about these wonderful Finwëions.


	23. As it should be

Nolofinwë felt dizzy. He stumbled through the palace leaning on the walls, bright-eyed, soft-limbed. He knew he had been smiling since he left his brother at Míriel’s old garden because his jaws ached, and there was nothing he could do. Euphoric happiness had taken over his senses, and the hysteria built in his chest with a laughing jag, the unbelievable things he had just done, and how it sounded impossible even now when he could feel his sore back, the burning on his lower parts – and he grinned even broader at the memory.

Servants nodded at him while he strode up the stairs, and not few of them turned their heads in awe at the rare sight of the Prince’s smile – and to admire the equally breathtaking sight of his naked torso. They might have also noticed the torn linen shirt hung up his shoulder. It was the evidence of his… encounter with Fëanáro, and so easily explained it seemed ludicrous: Findekáno had ruined it accidentally on the arena. Nobody would either question it or try to confirm the veracity with his eldest son – why would they? It was common to ruin clothing while fighting, and it was one of the reasons Anairë... no, not yet. Fëanáro. He wanted to think of Fëanáro. Yes. The grin broadened.

The simple memory of how the shirt was torn into rags exhilarated his every nerve, and he had to smack his lips shut to restrain the excitement that once again threatened to gobble him. And he would let himself be devoured again, oh, yes… he definitely would. Unable to contain the giddiness of his body, he jogged to his chambers, feeling he had dived into a pool of magic waters that had miraculously restored his youthfulness, happiness bubbling irresistibly in his belly. He snorted. It was a pretty good description for his brother.

Once he reached his chambers, he thanked Eru for his good fortune, for his wife was nowhere to be found. The room was empty, and he could finally let go of the enormous amount of restrained emotions inside his chest. Nolofinwë walked to the full-size mirror and laughed, a little hysterically, with the sight he made, his idiotic, smitten smile, hair a messy tangle of lose braids. It was fortunate indeed Anairë wasn’t here, for he wouldn’t be able to explain his ecstatic behavior, something so different from the man he got used to being. But no more. His jaws stiffened again when his grin widened more than he thought possible.

And although wrestling could be violent, it didn’t leave these purple-greenish bruises on his hips, or the bite marks on his neck, and he felt uncomfortable in the region below… Well, everything bellow his chest hurt. Pleasurably, he giggled. A new surge of desire swooped over him as he touched the places where Fëanáro had left his marks, the evidence that Nolofinwë was his. It was all so exhilarating he didn’t have enough words.

Laughing uncontrollably, he threw himself on the bed and crossed his arms behind his head, eyes closed, reliving every single second of the spectacular turn of events the talk with his brother had been. The vivid memory of Fëanáro’s astonished look when they had kissed probably had mirrored his own, and he recalled with particular delight the passionate consequence of his straightforwardness, how his brother had shut him with his tongue. Nolofinwë licked his lips, still savoring that lingering taste, which was sweeter than honey. He had never been more glad in his life to follow his instincts.

He thought again of Fëanáro’s lips, lustrous red from their frantic swirling, closing around him… It had been the most erotic thing he had ever experienced, and not one of Anairë’s touches had ever alighted him with such lust. Nolofinwë bit his lips and traveled his hand down to his groin as his body reacted to those fresh memories with impossible new throbs. He unbuckled his breeches and stroked himself languidly, not quite believing he had been able to fulfill his wildest fantasy. The longed-for touch of his brother’s skin burning against him, the fiery taste of his tongue. He took a flock of his loose hair to his nose and inhaled the intoxicating scent that still clung unto him, and recognized the mixture of his own lavender soap and Fëanáro’s eucalyptus smell. He wished he would never have to wash it off.

Fëanáro’s hair felt like touching black clouds, as soft as his mouth. Fëanáro’s mouth. That had wrapped all around him. Nolofinwë gasped with the spike of desire, reliving in his mind the feel of his brother’s tongue sliding and clutching on his length, on its tip, that magnificent head bobbing up and down, and sin incarnate looking at him through those searing diamond eyes. He stroked himself harder, and a soft moan escaped his throat. Their joined bodies, blood thundering on his ears, and the feeling of being utterly breached by fire. Nolofinwë hadn’t argued over dominance – this time. He had wanted to be taken, so he let Fëanáro do it. But next time it would be his turn. He imagined how glorious Fëanáro would look beneath him, growling like a caged tiger – he groaned as seed spluttered on his hand and belly.

He drifted in the ecstasy for a few minutes before regaining conscience. And he felt good. No, he felt _wonderful_ , like never before in his life. He remembered distinguishedly the inexplicable jolt of electricity that had rushed through their bodies. It was true what Fëanáro had said: it was meant to be, and that had been a sign. It was as if their souls had only been waiting for this to fully awake. And he indeed felt more aware now than in all the cold years of Fëanáro’s absence. He felt like himself again. Like he had found his safe haven.

Nolofinwë sat up, the smile finally fading from his lips; he stared blindly at his smeared hand, and his mood dimmed a little. Fëanáro was far from being safe, let alone be someone’s haven! He was the storm that rode on the waves, stirring the sea into wakefulness. It was a blissful awakening, truth be told, but as dangerous and as addictive as the fire that raged underneath his skin. Nolofinwë had been burned anew, and he couldn’t decide yet what that life would be like.

What had happened that afternoon had been but the start of whatever their relationship was going to be from now on. Nolofinwë knew, in his heart, they would honor their newfound love, even if they hadn’t said these exact words. However, even though they had admitted loving each other, there were still too many things to be put in place. They were not nearly done talking and solving all the issues brought up by decades of estrangement. Whatever was going to happen, it wouldn’t be remotely easy.

There was the matter of how they would hide. He and Fëanáro had decided it was better neither to lie about an alleged enmity, for it would be too hard on them, nor to conceal they had come to terms. They would act as normally – and as brotherly – as possible. Quarrel solved, they could try an approximation, for the sake of their sons. They had agreed it would also appease their father, who would no doubt be happy to see their friendship restored. They loved one another, and that was the first step. But they needed to rebuild both their friendship and their trust, and that was going to take some time.

Then, there was the matter of their wives, and Nolofinwë cringed at the idea of ever having to lay with Anairë again. He sighed and stood up, at last, walking to the bathroom to wash his hands. To conceal from her the wholeness he found in his brother would be the real trial. She already felt Nolofinwë was a distant lover, how would she react when he shied from her touch? Because it was with revulsion he thought of her now, as if going inside her skirt was foul treachery to his brother and his heart.

Yet, something deep inside told him none of this was important. He wouldn’t allow himself to sulk! Not now, not today of all days! His reflection smiled at him, and he swept those gloomy thoughts, Anairë’s resentment, and all it conveyed, away from his mind. Not today, not now. Now he just wanted to think of the new life ahead of him. A life with his brother beside him.

***

It should’ve been easier to hide the possessive and purplish mark of teeth on his neck, but it seemed Fëanáro had done it on purpose to brand him – and, strangely, that thought aroused and offended him in equal measure. It had taken Nolofinwë a ridiculous amount of time to find a tunic that would cover it, and, at the same time, that wouldn’t make him overheat. He only managed to completely hide the bruising when he braided his hair in a very specific way that would stay still even if he had to dance. He chuckled, admiring his work in the mirror. He wouldn’t have to dance today, but the image of him and his brother pairing up to lead the traditional Noldorin waltz was rebelliously absurd – and yet, what a magnificent dancer his brother was!

Nolofinwë breathed several times, easing the twitching bulge on his breeches, and shoving without mercy the thoughts of Fëanáro’s slim, muscular body away. If Anairë came in now, she would think it was an invitation, and he would rather bury his head in the lit fireplace than to undo all his newly arranged addressing to bed her. Fortune was on his side because she didn’t. He actually wondered where she could be all this time but thought it was better not to inquire. He and Fëanáro had decided they would meet at the pit again to publicly state their renewed friendship. He had a part to play, and he didn’t want to think of anything else. He smiled. Anything or anyone else, indeed.

But before he set foot on the arena, he heard the boisterous cheers of the crowd that seemed to have grown considerably since he had left. Even the ground shook with the many stomping feet as voices raised for the competitor who was winning. Then, his heart skipped, and he smirked, for the crowd screamed his brother’s name. Of course Fëanáro would go back to wrestle. Once he stepped in, he was a little surprised by the number of gathered people. There were lords and folk alike, and it looked like a festival day or one of Tulka’s championships.

There was laughter, loud talk, whistles, and all kinds of cheerful noises that made him think it could only be for the breathtaking figure down on the pit, circling a silver-haired opponent. With a start, Nolofinwë saw it was Rúmil, and both he and his brother were smiling. His timing couldn’t have been more perfect, for Fëanáro, as if he was performing for Nolofinwë alone, made a swift, graceful move and threw the old lambengolmor on the floor, receiving the last and winning point.

Nolofinwë wondered if he had sensed his approach, for his brother raised his beautiful disheveled head like a fox and instantly found him among the crowd, gazes locking with the same fiery intensity of a few hours before. Fëanáro raised his hand in salute and threw him a dazzling smile that made many of the viewers gasp, too. Nolofinwë’s whole body wasn’t quite used to the sight, and reacted how it knew: his heart thrummed with excitement, his throat dried, and his body remembered Fëanáro’s lips that curved up so enticingly. He listened as women giggled behind him, for the smile was turned on their direction, and they felt the full impact of Fëanáro’s blazing attention.

It took him a while to regather his thoughts, but Nolofinwë finally smiled back and returned the greeting. If anyone still had air in their lungs after Fëanáro took his filthy shirt off and threw it to a servant (who caught it as if it was a well-earned prize), now the whole crowd was definitely mute. Fëanáro slowly, deliberately walked up the stairs at the same time Nolofinwë started descending. To them, the sky could be falling upon their heads, and it wouldn’t have mattered because their fëa soared around them in recognition, and Nolofinwë vaguely wondered how on earth nobody had noticed it.

They finally stood facing each other, eyes blazing, heart banging, teeth showing. A grip on the wrist that indicated kinship, but it was an ancient greeting that showed equality in relationships and was used among the Three Kings during their councils. The crowd roared around them. Nolofinwë couldn’t help chuckling, because it was impossible to refrain the joy, fingers burning where they touched skin. Fëanáro’s lashes swept down for a fraction, and, when he looked up again, Nolofinwë was taken aback. In his eyes, shone love, lust, the same happiness that threatened to choke him, and a thousand more things Nolofinwë had never seen before. So much more than that, they reflected his own soul.

He could have wept if they had stared longer, but the clamor around them was deafening indeed, and, before he knew, their father was standing beside them, tearful eyes rimmed with love. He put a hand on both of his sons’ shoulders, and no further words were needed. Nolofinwë didn’t even know what to make of that situation. He hadn’t expected to see their father so soon, the pretend mask he had to put into concealing his not-at-all-brotherly love was not nearly refined, and he feared the worst. His hand felt suddenly sweaty, and he let go of his brother’s wrist. They were then surrounded by their laughing, screaming children, demanding attention, explanation, demonstration.

“Atar, you should have seen it! It was incredible! Uncle Fëanáro beat everyone except you! You were the only one with whom he had a tie!” Findekáno skipped restlessly at his side, his bright little star.

Nolofinwë glanced at Fëanáro, who was kissing his baby’s cheek, and they briefly shared another look full of a light that was beyond words.

“We had a lot of time to practice between us. That’s why,” Nolofinwë answered, then, broadly smiling.

“We have tried it also!” Turukáno beamed beside his brother, his baby sister playing with small pebbles on his arms.

“Yes! I won against Turvo, and Nelyo won against Tyelko, but then _he_ won against Káno, and then Nelyo challenged me, but we hadn’t had the chance to see who’s the best yet,” Findekáno was breathless and Nolofinwë, glancing over his young nephew’s shoulders to where Nelyfainwë stood, understood why. His elder nephew’s pewter eyes twinkled to Findekáno.

“We will, cousin, I promise,” the red-haired smiled softly.

A sudden surge of love overcame him, and if Nelyafinwë had been close, he would have embraced the young man. So instead, Nolofinwë lowered his eyes to his children and wrapped his arms around the three of them in a grip so tight they whined, and Irissë made annoyed little noises. But they were all laughing. His bright little star, who was undoubtedly feeding on his own happiness through the bond they shared, was glowing at his side.

“Can we try it again, atar, please?” Turko pleaded, making Irissë hop in his arms.

“Well, we…”

“Atar, I would like to wrestle with you again!” Canafinwë argued, tugging Fëanáro’s sleeve, and then they all broke in pleadings of “Me too!” “Yes, atar, please!” “I will go first! “No, I’ll go first!”

“Fëanáro, where are those lamps of yours? They would come in handy now, and you could let the children training here with Eönwë while we talk,” his father interrupted.

One of the boys (he couldn’t say where the voice had come from) addressed him. “Uncle, why are you dressed so fancy? We wanted to wrestle with you too!” To which the brothers pleaded the same arguments as before.

“And what is this baby still doing here in such a state?” Finwë took an already tired and always restless Irissë from Turukáno’s arms. He vaguely discerned his father calling for a servant and asking him to take the baby back to the palace and let the Queen and the Princess know where the family was. “This baby needs a bath, first and foremost, don’t you, little flower?” Irissë started to cry.

It was a cacophony, several voices speaking at the same time, and Nolofinwë felt overwhelmed. He looked dumbstruck for a moment and scratched his cheek, trying to focus on who said what and which question to answer first. His bewildered eyes slid briefly to his brother, who was broadly smiling, cradling little Kurvo in his arms. The baby flung his arms around his neck and was laughing at Finwë, who tickled his little toes behind his brother’s shoulder.

Fëanáro looked at his astonished please-help-me look, and his laughter rand loud through the arena. Nolofinwë, in a lack of words, could only smile, for that was a sound that could bring the Valar to their knees for its beauty. It alighted the place with Fëanáro’s inner fire, and for the moment it lasted, the pit quieted in awe. But then, broken the spell, the boys said something to Finwë, who was vividly encouraging his grandsons to try the arena once more.

“We should do it, my friend,” a voice from behind the family circle called everyone’s attention. Rúmil smiled at their father.

Nolofinwë could tell this was not what Finwë had intended. At all. And then he thought, not a little surprised, there was a first time for everything when a pepper-red color spread from the king’s neck to the tip of his ears! He looked at his brother, who seemed as amused with their father’s blush, and he stiffed a snicker. If the High King entered the pit the same day the two brothers reconciled, it would be a celebration day indeed! It would definitely please the court, and it would partially blind Eonwë (therefore, the Valar) to what had happened between Fëanáro and him – and what he hoped would continue happening that same evening. Furthermore, it would also be an excuse to give both his wife and his mother. It was perfect!

“You should do it, Father,” he encouraged. “I have never seen you wrestling.”

Fëanáro looked at him with a wolfish grin as if he had read his thoughts - or perhaps it was just the power of Fëanáro’s dangerously sensual lips curving in a smirk. He faltered, length twitching most inappropriately, and ran a self-conscious hand on his hair.

“You should certainly do it,” Fëanáro added. “It will be entertaining at the very least to see the High King getting dirty with our most renowned scholar,” he dazzled with another blinding smile.

A peel of laughter broke from those around their circle, including their indulgent father. Nolofinwë snorted and shook his head. Only Fëanáro was entitled to say such a thing and get away with it. As it was, though, Finwë was immediately forced to agree. Rúmil pushed his shoulder and told him to go find proper clothing as swift as Manwë’s speeches, to which Fëanáro threw his head back and graced the crowd with another burst of delightful laughter.

“Children, why don’t you go ahead and find places for your fathers at the gallery? They will be with you in a moment,” the loremaster suggested and pointed with his head, indicating they should go along.

Nolofinwë noted his eldest nephew instantly understood it was a cue for “the adults need to talk serious things that you should not listen.” But before Nelyafinwë led his brothers and cousins away, he threw Nolofinwë a speculative glare, and Nolofinwë couldn’t help blushing. He moistened his suddenly dry lips and gave Nelyafinwë his back, pondering it was not reasonable to feel so embarrassed under his nephew’s starlit eyes. Still, his blush persisted even hotter on his face. He wondered what Fëanáro had shared with his sons about his desires because, by the look he just got, maybe their relationship wasn’t going to be as well accepted as it seemed, or as it would certainly be with Findekáno.

His bright little star, so perceptive and so accepting of everything! A handsome young man with a high moral compass and a heart the size of the world. He beamed with pride and love, wondering if Findekáno suspected his own sudden source of happiness. But then... he was still too young to understand such things, wasn’t he? An image popped in his mind of his son and Nelyafinwë sharing stares and smiles that were all but too obvious to him, and he thought how inappropriate it would be if Findekáno’s sexual awakening happened too soon. Deep in his musings, Nolofinwë missed much of the quiet chat Fëanáro and Rúmil were having. He was interrupted when he felt the lambengolmor’s hand on his shoulder, much like Finwë had just done.

“I am glad for both of you,” he said sagely, and Nolofinwë started, for it wasn’t just any statement.

Rúmil knew. His heart jumped anxiously. Nolofinwë looked over to Fëanáro, who had put his hand on the master’s shoulder and smiled back. Rúmil’s gaze fixed momentarily on his brother’s mouth, and, when he turned to Nolofinwë, he smiled tightly and squeezed his shoulder once, before leaving them. Suddenly Nolofinwë’s chest seemed too tight for his heart, and something scratched on the back of his throat, which made it difficult to swallow or talk. He had a deep frown and, when he looked at Fëanáro again, his brother’s face was unreadable. Mysterious, like he had always been.

It took him a while to understand it was jealousy that bellowed in his veins and fogged his mind. Some primal instinct had told him, during their encounter, he hadn’t been Fëanáro’s first male lover. Now it was crystal clear who, in fact, had been. Burning, blinding jealousy howled in his stomach. Somehow the loremaster’s yearning for Fëanáro had slipped in that one look, and it told Nolofinwë something he wished he had known from his brother’s own mouth. That mouth which Rúmil had tasted before him. Why hadn’t he said anything? He turned his face from Fëanáro and wanted to walk away, to forsake everything they had shared that same afternoon and knock out of Fëanáro’s face the mere memory of Rúmil!

But Fëanáro didn’t let him go. He gripped and turned his arm so they would face each other again. His brother didn’t say anything, but the fingers around his biceps tightened, forbidding Nolofinwë to walk that path.

“We will talk later,” Fëanáro promised, shaking his arm earnestly.

It would be too easy to fall on the trap of fighting over this, and Nolofinwë’s jealousy menaced to ruin what had been such a perfect reunion. He exhaled slowly and put back on the mask he was used to using. His frown, and the clutch on his heart, hadn’t eased, but he nodded at Fëanáro nonetheless. They had agreed to play amicably, and to say anything now, like admitting out loud that he was sorry for something people hadn’t witnessed, could raise unwanted suspicions. After all, even though Fëanáro was undoubtedly Rúmil’s favorite, Nolofinwë had no public quarrel with their old master. Creating a scene of jealousy would destroy everything before they had even begun.

Nolofinwë’s fortune was still with him for, at that precise moment, Finwë re-entered the arena dressed in a fine silk shirt and black breeches. Even in simple garments, he still looked regal. Fëanáro descended the stairs and took his place between Nelyafinwë and Canafinwë, who had engaged in a fierce bet with his own children. The atmosphere was light enough, and seeing his sons so happy was a balm to his heart. But, as usual, Findekáno stopped talking the moment Nolofinwë approached him, an inquisitive look on his sweet features. Nolofinwë cursed inwardly and breathed, trying to remember the joy that was his brother’s touch, instead of the anxiety stinging his throat.

Inevitably, Fëanáro’s presence attracted his eyesight as one of those magnets of his, and as Nolofinwë gazed side-ways to his brother only to find him staring hungrily back, his heart banged on his chest. Besides, the corner of Fëanáro’s mouth quirked almost imperceptibly, as if, again, he could have read his mind. That, or the fact that the confirmation of how Fëanáro’s closeness (and his magnificent, still naked, torso) affected him could be seen on the growing bulge between his legs – which was far more likely. He quickly sat down, covering the evidence with the creases of his robes, red heat burning his ears. This was going to be impossible! He thought in a flare of irritation. He wouldn’t be able to conceal a damned thing if his body reacted like that to a simple look.

But as nothing with his brother was simple, the mere glimpse of Fëanáro’s sultry lips voraciously sliding on his length made Nolofinwë gulp for breath. Remembering where he was, and with whom, he squirmed impatiently on his seat, trying to forget the erection that throbbed more insistently. When he looked around and saw Eonwë noticing his discomfort, something inside him snapped, and laughter bubbled in his stomach irresistibly. Who would’ve thought that breaking the laws would be so exhilarating! He turned to his sons, his mask coming up easily now. Findekáno tilted his head and looked at him as if he was trying to grasp the meaning of those feelings.

“Who have you bet on?”

“Grandfather, of course!” His eldest smiled as sweetly as ever.

“Moryo is the only one who bet for Rúmil,” Turukáno added in a lower voice, a little baffled by his young cousin’s boldness, “but he just did that to upset Tyelko.” Nolofinwë smiled, reminding his brave-hearted boy who had the nerve of approaching Fëanáro when no one else would.

The wrestle began, and it was nothing like Nolofinwë had expected. His father, who had seemed out of shape, was fast and deadly as a lion, and Rúmil never really stood a chance. Finwë won after three rounds only, and justly, for the absolute delight of the cheering crowd. When it was over, both High King and loremaster joined them, with praises from all sides, lords, and folk alike.

“You fought well, Rúmil,” said Yanattë some seats above them.

The lambengolmor waved his hand dismissively. “My thanks, but we both know I didn’t. I was never known for being a good fighter, unlike my king, who was ever a warrior among us,” he added cautiously, Nolofinwë thought.

There was no doubt many had caught their breaths at the sole mention of their lives in Endor, and, sensing the tension as much as he was – maybe he had done it on purpose? - Rúmil ably changed the subject.

“Well, one person cannot possibly be good at everything they do, right?”

And, as he said it, all glances, including the loremaster’s, turned toward Fëanáro, his older sons smiling in evident agreement and adoration. But his brother had such a smug look on his face that something inside Nolofinwë snapped. All the jealousy and rage disappeared, leaving only the obvious mix of awe and pride he always felt, and the surging, choking joy. He lowered his head on his cupped hands and snickered, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

He hadn’t realized those who listened were laughing also, Fëanáro among them, and that mesmerizing happiness loomed to overtake his senses again. He wanted to swat the back of his brother’s head, and kiss him, and hug him, throw him on the floor and fuck him.

“Are you gracing our feeble intellects with your brilliancy tonight, brother?” He asked instead and grinned because it was the kind of thing he would have said in the past. His voice trembled a little with all the longing at their lost friendship of old.

And then his heart skipped several beats as Fëanáro stared deep into his eyes as he answered.

“Why certainly, little brother, if blabbering about my work is what you want. After all, we will have a lot of time on our hands,” his brother added, eyes twinkling.

The seriousness of his tone couldn’t have been more hilarious. It was the most obvious thing in the world for the two brothers to catch up about their accomplishments after so long apart. Still, Nolofinwë read between the lines, desire so obvious in his brother’s eyes he was amazed Eonwë didn’t drag them before the Valar that same second. The prospect of those future talks made his length throb, still painfully aroused. Finwë abruptly ceased his conversation with the boys, and his head snapped up, eyes filled with hope. Did that mean…?

As if he knew, Fëanáro laughed low, the kind of sound that drove into Nolofinwë’s body like strong wine.

“Yes, Father, we will be here for a long time,” he finished, sharing another look with him that was more than just a promise.

Nolofinwë’s heart thumped so fast it stopped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Canafinwë (Káno, Macalaurë) - Maglor  
> Turkafinwë (Turko, Tyelkormo, Tyelko) - Celegorm  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin  
> Findekáno (Finno) - Fingon  
> Turukáno (Turvo) - Turgon  
> Irissë - Aredhel


	24. Hearth and home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost a month since the last update - sorry for the delay!
> 
> Many, many thanks to all those who leave kudos! I also love hearing what you have to say, so comments are always welcome! ^^

Fëanáro never tired of staring at those perfect black lashes fanning over the sculpted marble-like face. The cheeks were slightly flushed, and Fëanáro smiled – of course they would be after the passionate tussle they had just gone through. Their limbs were still entangled, laying in place after they both collapsed, laughing and panting with exhaustion. Fëanáro feared to move and wake Nolofinwë, for he was even more beautiful when he slept.

Silver light glowed inside his mother’s old room and bathed Nolofinwë’s body like a blessing, enveloping him in its whiteness, something akin to purity. Fëanáro watched entranced as the shadow of leaves painted patterns on his lean, muscular figure. These were the moments Fëanáro liked best. After loving each other with the intensity to burn a thousand stars, quietness fell over them as blissful as their couplings. He would, then, trace all his brother’s features with his eyes, fingers and tongue, tasting, learning. Worshiping.

Sometimes Nolofinwë would wake up laughing, tickled, and eager for another round. Other times, he would nuzzle against Fëanáro’s neck and plant soft kisses everywhere his mouth could reach – and that, invariably, would lead to another round. The mere thought of it made Fëanáro’s body react, and he smiled, sliding his hand over Nolofinwë’s raven hair. He didn’t want to disturb his peaceful rest, but the truth was he couldn’t keep his hands off his brother. It would be like asking a bee not to drink the nectar from the most eye-catching flower of the garden.

He remembered how the day had been with a smile on his lips. They had started arguing, as usual. Fëanáro resented how Nolofinwë wanted to spend time with their third brother, and Nolofinwë had jumped right in to defend the one that, according to him, “has always been there.” Fëanáro still felt the lump in his throat, the sudden hatred and jealousy that had paralyzed him as Nolofinwë walked out of the door and left him prostrated.

Estranged as they had been for so long, and given how changed Nolofinwë was, their discussions were inevitable – that much he had already learned. He remembered with a suppressed snort the fury in Nolofinwë’s eyes when his brother had confronted him with the truth about Rúmil. He loved Nolofinwë’s jealousy. But one thing was to see that possessive love, so much like his own resounding in his brother’s beautiful features. The other entirely was to feel like he had to share his lover’s attention. It was also the first time Nolofinwë hadn’t come back so they could settle their disagreement. That morning, his brother stood his ground and protected their youngest fiercely.

It took Fëanáro the whole day, including the dreaded supper with their entire family, for him to finally understand and relent. He was forced to confront the truth as soon as he entered the dining chamber. The sound of hushed talking, some low chuckles, and shy eyes surprised him. Generally, there would be children rolling on the floor, screams, fights, food flying around, and a lot of loud laughter. Finwë was as indulgent with his grandchildren as he was with his firstborn.

But that had been the first time they dined in the Queen’s presence – in fact, it was the first time he saw her after being in the palace for months. Fëanáro had avoided her, no doubt, but it felt like she was doing the same. It had struck him the power Indis had to control her grandchildren with her infamous icy glare. He couldn’t put into words how much he preferred the deafening cacophony that acted as a cover for his and his brother’s secretive looks.

Because, when they had company, their nearness was nigh unbearable for their imperative need to be in close contact, hands upon each other. So they always found a way to brush shoulders, fingers, or knees whenever chance appeared in such a way that wouldn’t be too obvious - except, perhaps, for the most perceptive ones. Being in the palace meant they were constantly surrounded by people, which made those furtive touches and glances more necessary and even more enticing.

That evening, however, Fëanáro hadn’t known if the furtiveness was going to happen. Nolofinwë had avoided his presence all day, and they still hadn’t reconciled. There was a strangeness between them that was felt, curiously enough, by all the children, not only their own. They immediately fell silent and turned their heads the moment he strolled down the room as if feeling the storm brewing inside him, ready to lash out at anyone who dared cross him. Irimë and Findis were there, as well as Anairë, who sat beside an empty chair by her left, and Arafinwë by her right.

“Curufinwë,” Indis had greeted him, which alone made Fëanáro stagger. There was no cold tone, no reproaches. He hadn’t expected to be addressed by her.

“Indis,” he returned, chin held high, haughty as usual.

“May I feed my youngest grandchildren today?”

Fëanáro noticed Irissë had already been placed beside her and was trying to stand up on her chair. He could have laughed – that girl was even more restless than Moryo! If Indis wanted to attempt taking care of the two babies, it was up to her. So he took Kurvo from his usual place at Moryo’s side and sat him down beside his cousin. The boy reached out to touch Irssë’s hair, as black as his own, and she didn’t recoil at his rough patting. Brave little one. Indis smiled at them indulgently, and Fëanáro wondered what magic had befallen his family.

Nolofinwë entered right after that, and they had stared at one another for a heartbeat longer, enough to make the entire family aware they had, once again, quarreled. Thinking in retrospect, it was amusing to watch everyone tense and hold their breaths if only because the two of them had the power to do so. His brother had given a kiss on both his sister’s cheeks, and they had smiled sweetly back at him.

To be in his father’s halls meant they needed to sit in order of age, so the elder sat closer, and the children were left at the far end of the table. The only exception was made to the younglings who couldn’t feed themselves. It was not so in his house, and he knew Nolofinwë disliked that particular way in which Finwë solidified some traditions as much as himself. That stupid hierarchy was nothing but a fraction of the strictness of the Laws that bled into their daily lives, disguised as the “customs” Fëanáro detested.

Nolofinwë had taken his place between Anairë and their younger brother, as he usually did on formal meals. So it was that Fëanáro and Nolofinwë always sat opposite each other, as their father presided the big table with Indis – she had it made so both could sit side by side, as equals. For that, she had Fëanáro’s admiration, even if it was utterly annoying to sit so close to her.

As Nerdanel wasn’t present, Maitimo sat by his left and, by his son’s side, sat Findekáno, to whom this permission was granted. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë weren’t, after all, the only ones who noticed the closeness that had so rapidly bonded the cousins. Their heads had been bent toward each other the whole time, as it often happened, and they spoke secretively, sharing private smiles. When he glanced over to Turkafinwë, however, the boy was exchanging looks and mimics with Finwë across the table. His father, oblivious to his grandson’s sign language, was staring back at the boy with a confused frown.

“Haru!” Turkafinwë called in a plaintive whine, and Fëanáro glimpsed his father, opening his mouth in an ’o’ finally understanding the request.

“Do you remember when we used to travel, son?” Finwë looked straight at him.

Fëanáro merely nodded. Of course he remembered. He waited to see where his father was going with this because thinking back at his childhood, motherless and with no friends, wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for the evening.

“I remember we once went to Oromë’s woods and had a very pleasant trip. Did you know Fëanáro learned how to swim in the lake that separates his domain from Yavanna’s pastures?” He turned his eyes to the children in general. “Yes, and then I taught Nolvo, and he taught his sisters and brother how to swim in that same lake. It became a little family tradition,” he added gleefully.

Fëanáro snorted. It was a fine scheme his son had prepared to make Finwë convince them all to go on the damned trip he had been asking for months. Turkafinwë looked positively impatient, rolling his eyes at his grandfather for straying out of topic, and Turko’s siblings were his accomplices, no doubt. Moryo looked anxious, and even Macalaurë was quieter than usual. Around the table, many pairs of sparkling eyes clung to Finwës anecdote. Fëanáro shook his head and couldn’t help the small laugh that rumbled out of his chest.

“If by teaching you mean tossing us at the freezing lake and encouraging us from the shore, yes, he did,” Irimë smirked to Nolofinwë, who looked playfully outraged.

“It was modern teaching,” he defended himself, smiling.

“Oh, modern!” Findis laughed. “Well, I never got back on you two for nearly drowning me!”

“Get back on us?” Irimë retorted. “I positively remember a squealing blond girl begging to be tossed a hundred times over!”

“Don’t worry, Fin, Aro got back on us for you, for the children here and for the children yet to come,” Nolofinwë spoke from the rim of his cup.

Fëanáro stared at his brother’s bantering, an inexorable melancholy set in his bones. He had missed that of his own free will, and only then he realized how much he’d lost. Fortunately, all voices speaking at once stopped his loud sigh from being heard.

“ _Ha-ru_!” Came another whine from Turko’s side.

“The point is, Fëanáro,” he waved a hand in Turko’s direction, futilely asking for his patience, “your children told me they have never been to the lake that became a milestone for our family. I thought it would be a great bonding time for all of you.”

Finwë gave them a hopeful smile like he had so few times given these past years. What he didn’t expect, however, was the stony silence that befell the table. Fëanáro licked his lips and looked down, unable to hide a single thing from his father. He saw Finwë looking at each one of his sons and, except for Nolofinwë’s ashamed look, they all looked back at their eldest expectantly. Their father went pale. Before he could allude to the (now obvious) recent argument – something that was only fuel for their further discussions in private – Fëanáro spoke.

“You are right, atar. We should go. We should _all_ go,” he glanced wistfully into Nolofinwë’s deep blue depths.

His lover held his glare for a few heartbeats, mouth set in a thin line. Fëanáro knew, deep down, Nolofinwë would never deny him anything, but his next words made the pit of his stomach freeze with anxiety.

“What of the last council with the miners guild?” He asked, tearing his gaze away from Fëanáro. “You asked of me to lead it, and so I have. Now they wait for our resolution. You know how impatient they are to settle this once and for all.”

“Has anything changed ever since?” Finwë asked, looking at his plate while he cut meat.

“They want their guild to be recognized as much as the others,” Nolofinwë poured himself more wine.

“Of course,” Finwë scoffed. “The old rivalry with the craftsmen from the city and the fishermen from the coast will never end,” he finished with a sigh.

“In fact, it has only increased since our last meeting,” Nolofinwë talked comfortably with their father, and his easiness on politics never ceased to amaze Fëanáro. “There has been talking of a public speech to gather sympathizers.”

At this point, Finwë looked at Nolofinwë, who gave his father a wry smile. “And, of course, they haven’t been to the mines ever since. The craftsmen guild is already complaining of a lack of raw materials.”

“What have you decided?” Finwë tilted his head.

Generally, when they two talked of politics, everyone pretended to listen, Fëanáro among them, more interested in focusing on the way his brother’s lips moved beautifully, how his eyes sparkled and how his body language showed absolute confidence. It roused him to see Nolofinwë thus. A little shift by Arafinwë’s side, however, and Fëanáro had seen Maitimo clinging to his uncle’s words as if they were the most important thing in the world. He frowned slightly, a spike of renewed and uncontrollable jealousy running through his veins.

Nolofinwë swallowed the food and said, his voice firm and deep. “I have thought long about it, and they should indeed be seated in the council among the other guilds as is their right.” Finwë nodded to his son’s words. “But as long as they provide the miners with minimum security with their own resources, as the other guilds do.”

Their father had looked at Nolofinwë with a concerned frown.

“Are you saying the Crown should withdraw responsibility for the safety of its subjects?”

“Absolutely not, but it cannot be accused of carelessness for every minor accident that happens ten miles under the mountain! What they need is the proper tools and clothing.”

Finwë was silent, so Nolofinwë continued.

“We must provide space for intensification of trade among the guilds of the Vanyarin who are renowned for melting good metal for spear points. Arafinwë has already spoken on your behalf to some of Ingwë’s lords, who have been more than eager to partake in further alliances.” Nolofinwë sat upright on his chair, moving his hands excitedly.

The tingling in his bones made Fëanáro suddenly perceive it was all too quiet around him. He threw a sidelong glance to the rest of the table, and caught another two or three pairs of gray and blue eyes with a new awareness upon their fair faces: that Nolofinwë was as brilliant as he, himself, was - if only in another field entirely.

“And what have you offered them in return? Not marriage, I presume,” he said, raising his brow, knowing his sons’ opinion about this matter. Nolofinwë gave a tight, resigned smile.

Fëanáro knew there were a thousand things his brother could have said, but, fortunately, Findekáno was still too young, and Nolofinwë would never put his sisters in the same position in which he had been forced to.

“Not marriage, no.” He said after an uncomfortable pause. “But an alliance nonetheless. We will offer them a seat in our council. It’s only an honorary position,” he quickly added, raising a hand when Finwë had looked beyond shocked with such innovative, outrageous suggestion. “It makes sense, atar. Amil is Queen. I wager King Ingwë will be more than happy to cooperate knowing he has a representative of his own court on his niece’s behalf.”

Finwë was silent for another long moment. “It won’t be easy to convince them,” he shook his head in disbelief. His lips quirked upwards to his second-born. “But I suppose that’s why they have made me king, after all.”

Nolofinwë threw their father a blazing smile and chuckled low in that way that got Fëanáro through his gut and loins. His heart swelled with pride at how brilliantly his little brother conducted the affairs of the realm.

“If you wish, I can continue leading the councils,” Nolofinwë offered – but something in his tone told Fëanáro that, for once, he wished to be excused from duty. Maybe the prospect of traveling with all his siblings was too much a temptation to refuse - although he wished the real temptation came from himself alone.

“You have done much more than I could have hoped for, and I am proud as I am thankful.” Finwë threw Nolofinwë a tender smile. “In any case, the guild will like to see their king’s face for a change.”

Nolofinwë appreciated the rare compliment with a low sweep of his black lashes and a shy smile, gracing Fëanáro with a blissful view of his blush. Then, Nolofinwë had looked beside him to his sisters and brother in communication that required no words.

“The day after tomorrow?” Arafinwë suggested, studying his blood brother now the politic talk was over.

“We had promised to accompany Anairë to Ilmarin,” Irimë said, looking from one to the other.

“Well, we can join them when we get back!” Findis suggested with an enthusiastic grin. “And if she wishes, our sister-in-law can join us, too,” she gave Anairë a kind smile, who returned with a small one of her own.

At that mention, Fëanáro exchanged another glare with Nolofinwë, who didn’t look alarmed at all. Why wouldn’t he be, Fëanáro couldn’t guess. The trip he had already planned in his mind didn’t involve being a single mile near his brother’s wife.

“It’s settled, then,” Nolofinwë confirmed to the over-excited children, who had started chatting loudly and at the same time.

Fëanáro looked momentarily at Indis, expecting her to say something, put some obstacle on their happiness. But she merely smiled, suspiciously indulgent like she had never been with Fëanáro and Nolofinwë when they were children. He kept staring at her, waiting for the irrevocable signs of her disgust, contempt, and all the things that had made Fëanáro hate the woman his entire life. Moments passed, and he found not one. His frown had deepened as he wondered the whys and the hows.

Deep in his musing, he missed the discussion Macalaurë and Findaráto had tried (and failed) to placate between Turukáno and Angaráto. The boys, who were almost of age, had red, angry faces and tears in their eyes. When the shouting became too offensive, and Finwë had started throwing annoyed looks to the respective fathers, Arafinwë stood up, silent and elegant as a swan, so much like his mother, and knelt beside his youngest son.

“Tell me,” he said patiently, stroking Angaráto’s luscious waves, as golden as the ones in his own head.

“He said you were weak!”

“No, I didn’t!” Turukáno cried.

Arafinwë looked at his nephew with gentle eyes, and the boy pursed his lips.

“What did you tell him, Turvo?”

Turukáno crossed his arms, unable to meet his uncle’s eyes.

“He said you were weak! He said you would lose to uncle Nolofinwë in the pit!” Angaráto burst out before Turukáno could answer.

Arafinwë’s expression was impassible, but a glint of amusement flickered over his eyes. He had watched Nolofinwë quirk his mouth up in that irresistible way of his – the one that made Fëanáro want to crawl over the table and straddle him, uncaring about the rest of the world around them.

“I didn’t say he was weak, I said he would lose!”

Nolofinwë snorted, and Arafinwë didn’t repress a low, charming chuckle.

“It is very much likely I would lose to both my brothers and, perhaps, to your aunt Findis, as well, since they’re both better fighters than I.” He smiled at Angaráto’s shocked expression. “Of course, that’s something we will have to decide on the pit someday,” and he looked at Nolofinwë, smiling still.

“Whenever you want,” Nolofinwë said, looking fondly back at his youngest.

“We can also put a contest on who is better at sculpting or painting,” Arafinwë said, and Nolofinwë laughed out loud.

His two half-brothers shared, then, one complicit smile that showed Fëanáro all the sleepless nights Arafinwë might have slept in his big brother’s bed, the comforting hugs and soothing words Nolofinwë would have bestowed him, the lessons he might have learned, the smiles that were for him alone. Fëanáro saw, clearly, then, Nolofinwë was to Arafinwë pretty much what himself had been for his beloved brother. He realized, with another sting in his heart, everything the two of them had lived together and all he had missed all these years. His heart shrank, and he wished he had never ceased being a part of Nolofinwë’s life. _All_ his brothers’ lives. A sudden surge of melancholy crashed over him as the waves of the sea and washed his jealousy away.

“That wouldn’t be fair, as you know perfectly well these are not my strong skills, and especially not if Fëanáro decides to join in,” Nolofinwë’s gaze captured him inside those bright blue gems, and Fëanáro’s body jolted, inside and out.

It always started him how beautiful and passionate his brother was, especially when he looked at him like that, prohibitively, in front of their entire family. What would Arafinwë say if he knew about their secret? He stared back at Nolofinwë until color rose on his brother’s cheeks. As for the two boys, they had already fallen silent, but still held defiant little faces against each other.

“I am sure we would all lose against you, Aro, if we were to make a contest of who can tell the better stories or play the worst pranks,” Fëanáro added with a kindness that, he knew, never failed to surprise a part of his family.

To his amazed delight, however, not only his half-brothers but both their father _and_ Indis laughed wholeheartedly for the truth of his words. Fëanáro had spent little time with his other brothers and sisters, but he recognized the mischief was natural to his youngest, as was his charm. Arafinwë seemed to be the purest concentration of recklessness that plagued his family; there were moments on their first boat trip, in which Arafinwë would roll on the floor with the children and challenge them for diving and swimming competitions.

The age difference seemed to vanish, and he could be placed as the worst child of them all. Curiously, though, everyone loved him despite all the mischief – or because of it. Fëanáro had to admit Arafinwë’s laugh was enjoyable to those who heard it, and he was never troubled by anything - politics in their realm, his brother’s arguments, his children’s misbehaviors. He was the youngest, and, for that, he was left alone, blessedly forgotten – something he used to his full advantage.

Arafinwë had not a preoccupation in his life and did as he pleased. He had married for love, had beautiful sons, and his presence was as light as the first rays of Laurelin. Lying on the bed and thinking back on it, Fëanáro caught himself smiling fondly at his foolhardy golden brother, who had so rapidly – yes, gained a place in his heart.

“See, Ango?” Arafinwë had said with a kind smile. “These are not things to boast about with your equals. Both your uncles are better at some things as I am better at others. You have your own skills, as do your cousins, and all of you deserve praise for your talents. Don’t fight with your friends because of it,” he touched Angaráto’s rosy cheeks.

“I am sorry I called you a liar,” the boy said, then, crystal blue eyes staring at Turukáno.

“It’s all right. I am sorry, too. Are we still friends?” he asked, indigo eyes shining back with childish innocence.

Finwë was content with the resolution, but he didn’t have time to enjoy the quietness. The familiar cacophony was instantly back when Irissë had started wailing from restlessness, and Kurvo soon followed. Indis meant to take the girl in her arms, but the chubby legs knocked down a glass that dripped wine all over the embroidered cloth, including on her white dress. At once, Arafinwë and Findis were beside their mother, each paying attention to one baby while Indis wiped her clothes with her napkin, chiding Irissë fondly with soothing noises. Arafinwë hopped the girl up and down, drooling over his only niece, and Findis took Kurvo in her arms. Oddly enough, the boy appreciated the warm arms and laughed at her tickles. Indis had called in a servant, and Finwë asked for Maitimo to pass whatever food was on the table.

Fëanáro usually used these moments to call Nolofinwë’s eyes to him, blazing diamond and impossible to ignore. But Nolofinwë had fallen in some deep conversation with Lalwën, sitting beside Anairë. He knew, however, he was being watched, and Fëanáro saw him give one or two oblique glances in his direction. Fëanáro put a hand in front of his mouth to hide a mischievous smile, and took off his soft shoes, outstretching his legs discretely until his feet landed on his brother’s knees. For a second, blue eyes wide as platters stared blankly at their sister but, as Anairë tilted her head inquisitively, Nolofinwë put his mask back on and threw them a constricted smile.

“What are you two talking about?” Fëanáro leaned on Arafinwë’s empty armchair toward Maitimo as a way of diverting attention.

His eldest turned his beautiful copper head at him and smiled, eyes twinkling with excitement.

“I was telling Finno about our new experiment with glass.”

“Hum,” Fëanáro nodded, slowly traveling his feet along Nolofinwë’s inner thighs. “And what do you think of it?” He asked his nephew.

“I told Nelyo I would really like to see what that’s like,” Findekáno smiled too broadly, and his eyes shone too brightly as he spoke his cousin’s name and looked up to find Maitimo’s eyes.

Another wave of love filled his heart. His son was happy. All of them were happy. This was indeed how things were supposed to be. The feeling of completion emboldened him, threatening to throw away all caution. He continued exploring with his bare feet until he touched his brother’s burgeoning length. Nolofinwë jumped on his seat, choked on his wine that also spilled on the tablecloth.

“Goodness, how are we today!” Indis said, chuckling – a sound Fëanáro wasn’t at all used to hearing.

“Are you all right, husband?” Anairë asked very quietly, but it didn’t stop Fëanáro from hearing her longing.

“Yes!” He answered all too quickly, wiping his chin. “Yes, I am fine,” he smiled at her but turned his eyes to Fëanáro, who had his head intentionally leaned toward their firstborns.

He ran his toes along the shaft and watched with his peripheral vision as Nolofinwë stared bewildered at his own plate, breathing hard. Fëanáro hid another smile in his hand as his feet circled and stroke so very slowly, up and down, over soft breeches.

“You are welcome anytime you want. I am sure Nelyo will appreciate your company,” he smiled to his nephew, who hadn’t torn his eyes off Maitimo.

Nolofinwë moistened his mouth and blinked a few seconds longer than the normal. Fëanáro saw his knuckles whiten around the cutlery, as he firmly wrapped Nolofinwë’s shaft between his feet. His brother didn’t dare to look at him, he knew, afraid they would give it away. As dinner went on, and he kept Nolofinwë tightly secure, he saw a sheen sweat form over his brother’s sultry lips.

“Nolvo, are you feeling well?” Arafinwë asked before returning to his seat.

“Indeed, you don’t look very well, brother,” Fëanáro added mischievously and received a glare that would mean a thousand other things to those who watched them.

“I feel a little indisposed, that’s all,” Nolofinwë answered behind his teeth.

“Perhaps you should rest,” Arafinwë helped. “Dinner is almost over, certainly atar won’t object if you are feeling ill.”

“Why, no, certainly not! Something you ate, perhaps, son?”

“No, it’s…” he licked his lips again, voice shaky and eyes struggling to hide the dark of his lust. “Something else. I’m not sure.”

“Go rest, brother. If you wish I’ll see to you when we are over,” Fëanáro struggled to conceal his own growing desire.

“Go with him, Fëanáro. See that he doesn’t pass out,” Finwë added, concerned.

“I am _not_ going to pass out,” Nolofinwë growled. “But if you will excuse me,” he stood up, covering his arousal discretely, and used his sleeve to wipe his glistening front.

Fëanáro slipped his shoes on swiftly and stood up to accompany him, faking a concern that Nolofinwë wanted to, clearly, smack out of his face.

Nolofinwë walked quickly to his chambers, and Fëanáro followed, not able to contain his smirk anymore. When the door closed behind them, Nolofinwë pinned him and ground against his thigh ferociously.

“That was not…!” He said breathlessly, eyes heavy with desire.

“I needed to remind you who owned you.” Fëanáro still smirked, and Nolofinwë looked at him with something between incredulity and outrage.

“ _Own_ me?” He hissed, bringing their lips closer.

“Of course, brother. You are mine and mine alone, remember? Seeing Arafinwë sharing with you something I did not made me realize perhaps you had forgotten this,” his voice grew huskier with every word, intoxicated by his brother’s nearness.

“This is not a game!” Nolofinwë growled louder and pushed his chest, so he banged his back on the door.

Fëanáro’s eyes flared dangerously as he pulled Nolofinwë by the nape and made them exchange places with another bang.

“No, it never has been,” he unbuckled Nolofinwë’s breeches and raised the shirt to his chest. “It doesn’t make it any less true that I can’t stop wanting you.” He touched soft flesh, and Nolofinwë gasped.

“Anairë might be here at any moment!” His brother’s voice was urgent but not forbidding.

“Well, then, we’re just going to have to be quick.”

That said, he had enveloped both erections on his hand and drew on them, breaths mingling between ferocious kisses, Nolofinwë’s hand tugging on his hair until they were quickly spent. That seemed to have resolved their differences, and, once it was over, Fëanáro reveled in the way Nolofinwë’s sated eyes smiled at him. He hadn’t had to ask his brother to meet him later that night.

He had left Nolofinwë in his room and had come to his mother’s old chambers and prepare it for their overnight. Here they hid together, in the sacred sanctuary that was his mother’s quarters, as if with her blessing. It didn’t matter what the Valar said. Here he could feel her ever benign presence watching him, approving of everything he was and did.

Now they lay face to face, and Fëanáro couldn’t help thinking about the real reason why he felt so whole again like he hadn’t since he was a small child. He drank the sight of his brother’s sleeping body, the one who had made his soul roar in such completion slept by his side, sweet breath brushing against his face.

He craned his neck forward and traced Nolofinwë’s lips with the tip of his tongue. It was impossible to resist! It tasted richer than any ambrosia, and it was addictive in ways not even his obsessive mind could’ve predicted. He lingered, pushing just a bit inside Nolofinwë’s mouth, and his cock throbbed at the immediate response as his brother’s lips parted, welcoming him home.

Nolofinwë opened his eyes just a little and ran the tongue on his own mouth, certainly tasting him – a sight that alone could always make Fëanáro’s blood boil. The blue-diamond of his eyes were barely seen under half-closed lids, but Fëanáro knew what that purplish hue indicated. He traveled a hot hand over his brother’s flank and tightened on his thigh, pushing the slim leg over his own hips.

“Hum… you truly are insatiable!” Nolofinwë smiled.

“I could do this forever and never get tired of you, little brother,” his thumb traced Nolofinwë’s bruised lips, and his tongue soon followed.

“You… have me… forever…” came the answer in between nips.

This had been their routine for the past months. Except when he was at the forges, Fëanáro had never felt more alive or like his true self than when he was alone with his brother. Since that first time, his entire body seemed to be in a constant state of burning. His hunger couldn’t be mitigated, not even after the fourth or fifth round they found pleasure in each other. Nolofinwë, likewise, matched his unassuaged lust with the same voracity, the same need for rough touches, and even rougher lovemaking.

Even though they wouldn’t be disturbed in this far side of the palace, Fëanáro regretted the little time they always spent together. It was true they slipped away as often as they could, and no one had ever questioned their absences, brief as they were. They would also sleep together every night. Nolofinwë would wait for his wife to fall asleep and would come, full of unsated lust.

However, there was a limit of excuses one could come up with for being gone so many times. Fëanáro never worried if people suspected. Not his children, not even his father – not anymore. Being around Nolofinwë gave his heart courage, and his blood boiled with recklessness. It was as if, together, they could accomplish anything. He extricated gently from his beloved’s embrace and kissed his brow. He cleaned himself with a towel and had started to dress when Nolofinwë stirred.

“Where are you going?” he asked sleepily.

Fëanáro chuckled. “It pains me also, brother, but at some point, we need to get out of here, you know? It’s almost day-time.”

“Do we?” Nolofinwë murmured, burying his head on the pillow again.

He buckled his belt. “We have to prepare if we want to leave early tomorrow.”

Nolofinwë’s noisy exhale made Fëanáro chuckle again. He could feel in his own bones the same tiredness of good use.

“I guess you’re right,” his brother sat up, wincing.

“Are you hurting?”

“It feels like I have been impaled by a spear of fire,” he said gravely.

Fëanáro returned the glare with equal seriousness, then gave a wry smile, and both broke into loud laughter. He moved to rummage on the drawers for the healing salve he had kept there. Nolofinwë rolled on his stomach and let Fëanáro take care of his internal burning, sighing with relief when the scent of chamomile and lavender reached both his nose and relaxed his sore muscle.

“Will you do the same for me, melmënya?”

Nolofinwë eyed him above his shoulder, and his face turned pink. Fëanáro smiled, heart expanding with impossible love. It was not the first time they had used such endearments, but they were said during heated moments of sex, never so casually like this. But it felt so right, like everything else in their new relationship. Besides, it was always amusing to see his stern brother losing composure.

“I was thinking,” Fëanáro said after had scented oil rubbed on his back. “There is an abandoned hut hidden deep in Oromë’s forest.”

“A hut?” Nolofinwë raised a brow. “Casually abandoned?” A smirk worked out of his full lips.

“I don’t know about casual, but it was built by his Maiar long before I was born.” He threw the tunic over his silk shirt.

“And you just happened to know that?” Nolofinwë said while buckling his belt. Then, his face closed up. “Ah. Rúmil.”

“Yes,” Fëanáro admitted indifferently. “But the point is, brother, the hut is still there. And I want to go with you, even if it’s only for a few days. A few days, just for the two of us,” his voice dropped, and he couldn’t hide the yearning that burned in his heart.

They shared a loving look. Fëanáro approached him from behind and flung his arms around the broad chest, caressing still undressed skin.

“If I take another bath, my entire face will wrinkle,” Nolofinwë laughed, but pushed back nonetheless when he felt Fëanáro’s unsurprising hardness.

He turned his head so their mouths could meet. The kiss was only broken by Nolofinwë’s groan when Fëanáro pinched one of his nipples.

“If you want to keep seducing me, you better tie me to the bed,” he said breathlessly.

Fëanáro smiled, nose buried in his brother’s silky hair, leaving wet kisses on his neck and shoulder. “I might just do that. Can you imagine it?”

Nolofinwë gasped and rested his head on Fëanáro’s shoulder. “See for yourself,” he took the hand and guided it to his now strained arousal.

“You are right, háno,” Fëanáro stroked the flesh over the fabric, as breathless as his brother. “I am insatiable. And we should do something about it if we are to meet anyone.” He pressed sensuous kisses on the white throat. “But I’m afraid aroused is the only state I can be when I look at you.”

Nolofinwë’s had leaned back in abandon with the maddening caresses, but his eyes snapped open, and his whole body suddenly tensed. Some different emotion flashed in his eyes as he withdrew from their embrace and stepped away. For a brief moment, Fëanáro thought he had seen something like a stab of pain on his brother’s now troubled features. He frowned and reached out a hand tentatively, but Nolofinwë avoided his touch and finished dressing in silence.

“What’s this?” He asked, not allowing distance to separate them.

“What’s what?” Nolofinwë replied coldly, averting Fëanáro’s gaze.

“Don’t play with me, Nolofinwë!” He took his brother’s arm and forced him to turn around. Fëanáro searched his brother’s suddenly dull eyes, cold as the ice that grows above Valmar. “Why do you recoil?”

For a moment, the silence stretched, and Fëanáro feared his question would go unanswered – although his mind was still thinking about why. They had promised never again to keep things away from each other, not even words that would raise the other’s anger.

Nolofinwë met his eyes unflinchingly and asked, voice as hard as a stone. “Am I just a game to you?”

Fëanáro flew his eyes open. “What?” Incredulity pitching his voice lower.

“A game! A conquest! Someone to fuck when you are bored!” Nolofinwë spoke louder, as it wasn’t his custom.

Fëanáro looked at him agape, furrowed brows, not fully understanding where that accusation had sprung from.

“Why in the seven hells would you say something like that?” It was all he could ask, focusing solely on his brother’s eyes.

“Because fucking is the only thing we do!” Nolofinwë exploded in violence, freeing his arm from Fëanáro’s fierce grip.

“I never heard you complain about it,” Fëanáro kept his tone unusually calm, absurdity muffling his senses.

Nolofinwë started pacing the room, much like his older brother when he was enraged, and Fëanáro recognized the pattern with an eerie feeling.

“Of course not! We never have the time to properly talk!”

“Is it really what this is about?” Fëanáro asked, frowning, and stepping closer once more.

“You beckon me, seduce me, and our precious time together is…”

“What, wasted?” Fëanáro completed, breast rising and falling with a sudden flare of anger. “Is that what you think? That we waste our time on each other?” He snarled, striding to be breast to breast with his pale, dull-eyed brother. He waited, heart thundering, but as Nolofinwë remained silent, he whirled around, fury deafening him.

The door clanged behind him as he opened it, no longer caring if servants would hear the discussion. Fëanáro’s chest felt constricted, and his throat closed as he strode down the hall, feeling the day had not even begun and was already ruined. He replayed the scene in his mind over and over again, trying to find the answer for his brother’s outburst, his unexpected aggressiveness. He could find none.

Maybe it was what he had said about being always aroused? If so, it was nothing but the truth, and Nolofinwë couldn’t say he was any different. How could he? If his brother claimed Fëanáro seduced him, the opposite was just as true: Fëanáro was ensnared as soon as he could sense Nolofinwë’s presence. This was definitely not a one-way road, he thought, striding to the garden on the peak of the Mingling, jaws set to the point it ached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haru: (Q): grandfather  
> melmënya (Q): my love


	25. Confessions and acceptances

* * *

Sat on a bench beneath a packed cherry tree, Fëanáro watched the stars twinkle above his head. They shone exceptionally bright this night, as Telperion’s light was at its lowest. In his gloominess, he could almost hear them mock him in his solitude. Mental images of the day and the preparations for their departure as soon as dawn came, in a mere few hours, popped into his mind, inserted between unwelcoming ones. He knew sleep would continue to elude him. He recounted for the third time all the food he had gathered and prepared that afternoon for a party their size, going over the ingredients he had used, how long they could last if the boys were famished from hunting and running around – as they usually were – and whatever details might have escaped his mind. But his thoughts, as his steps would, kept tracing back to Nolofinwë.

He had expected this to be a night they were going to spend together, like many others before it. Yet, despite the prospect, Fëanáro hadn’t spoken to Nolofinwë that day. He hadn’t deliberately avoided his brother, but both were kept busy with the arrangements for their excursion. Fëanáro, for his part, took care of the horses and the food, going into the kitchen himself. The servants were in disarray with his imposing presence, but that was the only way to keep his hands – and his mind – occupied, away from thinking about the discussion they had just the day before. Fëanáro sighed, wondering if, one day, Nolofinwë and he would stop arguing and would finally reach a peaceful understanding.

But the mere thought of sharing composure and politeness between them was delusional, and he allowed himself a loud snort. No, he couldn’t ever be like Arafinwë and his eternal graciousness, who treated his wife with tenderness and extreme care as if she was made of porcelain. Fëanáro was not made of that material, the fire burning beneath his skin would never be put out, and Nolofinwë, he blissfully discovered, was as just the same. With a wry smile to the dark spaces between the stars, Fëanáro knew that he would rather have his brother as passionate as he could get, even if that meant constant clashing of words and wills.

A flash of a scene crossed his mind. Nolofinwë, gloriously naked, as Anairë touched the sacred places of his body with her unworthy hands, coaxing him into pleasure as he surrendered to her seduction. He groaned and hit the bark of the tree with his fist hard enough to splinter both wood and flesh. Blood sprinted from his knuckles, but he didn’t feel it. He dragged his hands across his face and hair – ignoring the blood clinging to the black strands – and trying his best not to be assaulted by what he thought were only images of his feverish imagination, but were so vivid they tore away little pieces of his self-resolve. He had, after all, agreed with it.

Fëanáro sighed and forced his thoughts away with all the might of his will until they focused on his sons. He thought about Macalaurë's musical voice in laughter as he chattered with his new acquainted – and already befriended – cousins. Nelyafinwë's easiness that charmed even unwilling ones as Kurvo relished in his half-aunts' soft arms – a surprise, indeed, for he was a shy baby that avoided the touch of strangers. The friendship that had also been born between Moryo and Nolofinwë's second-born. And Turkafinwë, whom he had found earlier on a corner of the garden, alone and brooding. The boy had sat hugging his knees dismally and picking on grass blades when Fëanáro saw him and had sat by his side.

“What is wrong, my fair little one?”

Turko said nothing and continued picking the grass but had leaned on his father’s shoulder, seeking the comfort of his strong arms. Sometimes Fëanáro forgot that however big and strong he seemed, Turko was a child still, with childish fears and the need to be continuously reassured he was loved by his parents.

“Have you fought with one of your brothers?”

The boy denied with his head.

“With your cousins, then?

Another shake of his silvery mane.

“Do you miss your amil?” Fëanáro said, then, with a pang of guilt.

Maybe he should have insisted the young ones staying with their mother, but knowing, at the same time, he couldn’t bear the idea of leaving any of them behind. He flung his arms around Tyelkormo’s slim shoulders and pulled him to his chest. The boy melted in his embrace and threw himself around his father’s ribs like the youth he was, dropping little kisses to his tunic. Fëanáro stroke his silky hair and couldn’t help thinking that, perhaps, his third-born was attempting to reassure him, too, that his children would never consider the mere thought of not following their father.

“What is it, my love? It’s all right if you want to cry,” he said softly, kissing Tyelko’s temple.

“Big boys don’t cry,” his muffled, small voice betrayed his own words.

Laughter rumbled inside Fëanáro’s chest. “To me, you are all going to be my little babies,” he rained kisses on the silver hair. He heard a sniff, then, and Turko curled into a ball in his arms.

“Not so long ago, I told Nelyo that he could trust to tell me anything that was in his heart, however sad or embarrassing it was,” Fëanáro said, tightening the embrace and drawing circles on the boy’s back. He waited for Turko to say something, but, as he didn’t, he whispered in his ear. “Won’t you tell your atar what’s in your heart?”

“I hate the palace,” he confessed with a whisper.

“And why’s that?”

“Haru told me I couldn’t climb his trees.” Fëanáro waited. There was more, he was sure of it. “He said it was dangerous to do it just to pretend I was talking to the animals.”

Fëanáro frowned. “What else did he say?” He felt the boy shifting in his arms.

“He said that the animals couldn't talk, so he didn’t believe me when I said I was talking to the goldfinches and punished me for lying!” Tyelkormo finished pitching his voice higher, pushing Fëanáro’s shoulders to look his father in the eye, becoming more indignant with every word, the hurt returning in full force.

Fëanáro brought his son back into his arms and sighed. “Your grandfather can be very skeptical sometimes, Turko.” He said in a low voice. “It is very hard for him to admit we are capable of greatness reserved for the Ainur alone. Don’t begrudge him, dear. One day he will see your natural gifts for what they are.”

Fëanáro also knew that, whenever he was confronted with other people’s talents that weren’t his eldest’s, Finwë was love-blind, and Fëanáro had times uncounted admonished him for his narrowness, especially when it came to his brother. But now this was his son! Did he doubt the power in Macalaurë’s voice – which was great enough to enspell Yavanna herself? His body shuddered with sudden rage, and he felt Turko’s little arms tightening around him.

“Aren’t you angry with me?” His son asked, afraid the rage would turn on him.

“No, sweetheart.” A soft kiss fell from his lips. “And I am so very proud of my little hunter.” As Turkafinwë had not left his embrace, Fëanáro admitted, whispering in his ear: “And I know the palace can be very tiring.”

Turkafinwë withdrew to look in his father’s eyes, a bewildered look on his face. “Do you hate it, too?”

Fëanáro chuckled. “When I was your age, I did. Don’t worry, love, we will be back in the forests soon,” he drew Turko’s head to his chest once more to drop another kiss. “You will like that, won’t you?” He felt the boy nodding. “What of your cousins? Do you like them?”

“Hu-hum. I like Ambaráto and Angaráto best.”

“That’s good. Do you want them to ride beside you?”

Turkafinwë agreed with a small smile, and Fëanáro dropped more kisses on his soft cheek, pinching and tickling his ribs until he was shrieking with laughter and squirming on his arms.

“Come now. We need to finish preparing.”

But the boy clung to his neck and wouldn’t let go. Fëanáro stood up with him, skinny legs tight around his waist, completely unaware that a boy his age and size shouldn’t be carried around like this anymore.

“Turko, I have an important thing to ask of you,” and he hopped his son on his arms so they could look into each other’s eyes. “We need apples for our trip. Lots of apples. Can I trust you to gather them?” The boy nodded eagerly. “Good. Tell Moryo to help you.”

That said, he let Turko fall from his arms, and he was already running toward the garden, grey hair swaying behind him, and, with the incidence of light, it looked like polished metal, dense and lustrous. It was then when he had hurried off to his unfinished tasks of organizing the boys’ clothes, the food, checking that they had enough supplies, and were well-stored. It had taken him a significant part of the day, for Fëanáro was meticulous and had taken time separating dried fruits, making jam, cooking meat, and preparing stew. There was also honeyed milk and wine, for children and adults alike.

When he finally left the kitchen, a beautiful light bathed the garden, and its exuberance was heightened by the idyllic landscaped that greeted him: his sons, sprawled on the grass, enjoying the last rays of Laurelin with all their cousins. The peaceful sight found a way to ease the turbulence of his heart. Maitimo, sat with Nolofinwë’s eldest, was engaged in deep conversation, foreheads almost touching. It was curious to watch them, the difference of height standing out, and Findekáno’s adoring eyes, always seeking his elder cousin, was already a motive for teasing in the whole family. Fëanáro knew the reason well: his beautiful firstborn was not just a lovable relative. Findekáno reminded him very much of Nolofinwë when he was younger.

Fëanáro sighed, frustrated, for now, he needed to talk both to his father and to his brother, and neither conversations were going to be pleasant. He was about to turn back and leave them to their talk when Kurvo came running clumsily toward him, screaming “atto!” and clashed on his knees, hugging them tightly. He smiled for his little boy, taking him in arms. All youths turned to him and stopped their chattering at once.

“Am I interrupting something?” He grinned slyly, flickering his eyes quickly over them.

Different shades of pink and red crept on faces and necks, which made him snort with amusement. He wondered when they would stop being so bewildered by his presence whenever he entered their midst.

“Atar!” Macalaurë came to his side, smiling – the most beautiful smile on all of Arda - and kissed his cheek. “Everything is ready for tomorrow.”

“Excellent! We leave at the first golden rays.” He touched the dimples that made his second born’s smile all the more stunning and kissed Kurvo’s cheek.

Turukáno had also approached him and leaned on Fëanáro’s elbow. A strong smell of apples reached his nose, and he guessed he had a hand in helping his cousins selecting the fruits.

“Where is Father?” Turvo asked drowsily.

Fëanáro’s face could hide nothing, and he licked his lips. “I don’t know,” came the truthful answer. “But I am certain he will soon be here.”

“I want to sleep,” the boy said, leaning on him with his entire body as if he wanted to take little Curufinwë’s place in his arms.

“Why don’t you lay down a little then?” he said softly, brushing Turukáno’s tunic off twigs and grass blades. The boy turned wide blue eyes to him, and Fëanáro’s heart clenched, for they were the same shade as Nolofinwë’s when he woke up.

“Mother doesn’t let me sleep outside,” he said in a secretive whisper, looking behind his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being heard.

“I promise I won’t tell her,” he smiled. “Go on. Káno, will you help him?”

“Come on, little one,” Macalaurë led the boy to rest on the soft turf, his black hair covering Macalaurë’s lap as the latter hummed a gentle, wordless tune.

“Uncle?” Fëanáro turned to see Findekáno and, behind him, Maitimo. “Is my father all right?”

“I think so, Finno,” he ran his hand over Findekáno’s soft waves and tried to reassure a smile that didn’t look like a grimace.

The handsome young man had a special relation with Nolofinwë that even he could not understand. In many ways, it resembled the bonds made by lovers in the twilight of the world. He had spoken briefly of this with Rúmil, and the lambengolmor had said it was not uncommon that father and son shared such a link, especially in their last days on Endor, when parents would give much of their fëa into their children and tie them, so they would be less tempted to wander far from home.

Fëanáro’s first reaction to that thought was revulsion, thinking how much he would have hated if his father had done so to him – and then, he realized, with growing anxiety, he could never know for sure. Maybe Finwë had, and that’s why he had felt so restless as a child and never seemed to find peace inside his father’s house. The easy answer had always been that Fëanáro was as he was because of his mother, who was said to have given him both hers and his life force – and because of that, his mother had to forsake her own body to dwell in Mando’s halls. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the undesired thoughts.

In any case, it was clear that Findekáno had been Nolofinwë’s salvation during the years they were apart – and _that_ Fëanáro could understand, even relate, for Nelyafinwë had also been the first stone of the foundation that maintained him straight and sane.

He slanted a look to Maitimo. His eldest had acted colder with him after he and Nolofinwë became lovers. They still hadn’t talked about it, and Fëanáro felt that, maybe, it was time to stop waiting for Maitimo to open his heart and cross the bridge that separated them even now. Maitimo whispered something in his cousin’s ear, and the boy left the two of them with a worried look on his face - the same one that marked Maitimo’s perfect features.

“Atar, what happened? Why isn’t Nolofinwë with you?” His voice was soft but filled with concern.

“We had a discussion,” he said apologetically, “but nothing to worry about,” he added as Nelyafinwë’s brows disappeared in his hairline. This wasn’t their first argument, after all, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Is it not?”

Fëanáro tilted his head.

“I’ve seen how much you’ve changed after you two reconciled.” Maitimo’s face was neutral, and Fëanáro’s blood pounded violently in his head, for he couldn’t read his son’s eyes.

“How so?”

“It’s obvious, at least to us,” he said, gesturing slightly with his head to where his siblings and cousins still enjoyed the day. “You love each other.”

Fëanáro stared for a while, and not a single shadow of doubt crossed his heart. “Of course we do,” he said out loud, Kurvo fidgeting with his hair. But Nelyafinwë stepped close and flung his arms around his shoulders, covering both him and the baby with the cascade of his copper hair.

“Don’t let him break your heart,” was the shaken whisper.

Fëanáro’s heart indeed broke with what sounded like a warning, but it was also a request, one he didn’t even know if he could keep.

“It was just an argument, dear,” he raised a hand to touch his son’s face. “I’m sure we will sort it out like we’ve done before.”

As he said those words, Nolofinwë descended the stairs, fair and flushed. Maitimo turned his head from one to the other, witnessing and registering their reactions as Nolofinwë blushed at his father’s sight, and Fëanáro frowned, anger spiking through him and hitting Maitimo in crimson waves. It was Nolofinwë’s fault, or else he wouldn’t look so nervously ashamed. Nolofinwë looked at Maitimo first and gave him a tight smile that was corresponded in the same measure. Then the blue eyes turned to Fëanáro again.

“Brother, a word?” He said in a low voice, and Fëanáro heard the knot in his throat that stopped him from speaking clearer.

Fëanáro nodded curtly and refused Maitimo with one shake of the head when his eldest tried to take Curufinwë from his arms. The youngling had been chewing a necklace he had crafted for this purpose only and was content. When they were alone, Nolofinwë’s long lashes still covered the unbearable blue light of his eyes. For his corporal expression, however, he could tell his brother had finally come to his senses.

“I am sorry,” he began, not cowering from Fëanáro’s angry glare.

“Are you?” Fëanáro couldn’t hold.

“Believe me, I am. I was not myself.”

Fëanáro frown deepened. Yes, that much was clear, although he had no idea why or what would make Nolofinwë lose his temper thus. He nodded and meant to go away, but his brother turned his shoulder back to face him.

“No, please! Don’t go like this!” The need in his voice made Fëanáro halt. Looking closely, he noticed the red on the corner of his brother’s eyes. Had he be weeping? “Please, let me try to explain.”

“There is nothing else to be explained.” He answered, unable to quash the anger Nolofinwë’s words had provoked and still rang clear on his ears.

“Yes, there is! Fëanáro, I swear, I don’t know what happened! It was as words came out of my mouth without my wanting. I wasn’t thinking of them! It was like…” He stopped, eyes falling to the ground searching. “It was like someone was talking _through_ me!”

“Don’t fool yourself, or me, by saying you didn’t mean what you said.”

His brother frowned and recoiled as if struck. Desperation flickered over his eyes. Nolofinwë had no need to use his politician mask when alone with him, and Fëanáro saw how he struggled to keep calm. But he wasn’t in the mood. His brother had ruined those hours they had spent together in bliss by questioning their worth. His _love_! After everything they’d been through to get to this point, how could Nolofinwë doubt? No, Fëanáro didn’t believe him. How could he?

“You are right to be angry.” Nolofinwë started in a low tone as if talking to himself. “I won’t deny my own insecurity, as much as I cannot control it. Being around you is a blessing as much as it is a curse for anyone willing to get burned.”

Fëanáro’s nostrils flared, and he opened his mouth, but Nolofinwë gave him such a smile that silenced his every thought.

“What are you telling me, Nolofinwë? Speak plainly,” he said, voice tight with too many suppressed emotions.

“I told you the truth when I said those words came out of me without my thinking, my consent, even,” and he stepped forward, hand reaching out slowly as if afraid Fëanáro would slip away. “But it is also true that these feelings were buried deep inside of me, and often have I wondered what I meant for you.”

Fëanáro realized, then, how difficult it might have been for his brother to admit those things. Nolofinwë had always been the most open and honest with his own feelings, but that confession was something else, even for him. Fëanáro wondered where that insecurity might have sprung from. Had he not shown enough how indispensable Nolofinwë was in his life? That, without him, he would be utterly lost?

“How could you doubt it?” He husked.

“How could I not?” Nolofinwë laughed mirthlessly and said no more. Fëanáro lightly brushed his knuckles on his brother’s cheek, an almost imperceptible caress of two lovers that only keen eyes would have seen as thus.

“Nolvo… I-”

“Atar!” Findekáno crossed to them, a look on his face that made Fëanáro’s heart sink even further. Distress, concern, and love shone on his nephew’s jeweled eyes.

Nolofinwë embraced his son, letting him hear his heartbeats as another way of reassuring it was all right – was it, though? Fëanáro still couldn’t say. His brother, who still hadn’t taken his eyes from Fëanáro, cupped Findekáno’s cheeks and tilted his head up. They stood like that for a moment, staring inside each others’ eyes, until Findekáno finally relaxed his shoulders and sighed. Nolofinwë smiled at him and stroke his cheeks, his hair and his back in another embrace.

“Just a little longer,” he whispered in his son’s ear, but Fëanáro heard it nonetheless. The boy left them, smiling over his shoulder, and he heard Nolofinwë say to him: “Come.”

Fëanáro put Kurvo on the ground and kissed the top of his head before saying, “Go find your brothers.” He followed Nolofinwë to their father’s study and closed the door. Fëanáro regarded him for some time, considering what his brother had just told him.

“What happened exactly, Nolvo?”

“I don’t know. It was…” his gaze turned inwards, searching for the words. “…as if a shroud had clouded my thoughts. I knew I was speaking and what, but I wasn’t in control. It was the oddest thing that had ever happened to me!”

“It is, indeed,” Fëanáro said thoughtfully. “I wonder…” Nolofinwë tilted his head inquisitively, and he continued. “I’ve already seen many times people being swayed to be silent, but to _talk…_ that was a first.” He finished, deep in thought.

But a shadow had fallen over Nolofinwë’s face.

“Who?”

“Rúmil.”

His brother set his jaw, and his eyes hardened, but Fëanáro threw him a dry smile. How idiots they were, one jealous of the other’s choices. He sighed and sat down on a chair across the desk, but Nolofinwë stood with stiff shoulders by the door, as if, by the least hint of confrontation, he would leave.

“I have never asked Rúmil about this, but maybe we should.”

“And what makes you think that, when we do, he will be free of his coercion?” He said between his teeth.

“Because he sometimes was. I don’t know what caused and why, and I wasn’t willing to let our conversations about Endor pass by. They seemed more important to me then, and Rúmil never mentioned anything, either.” He propped his elbow on the armchair and supported his chin in one hand. “What else can you remember?”

“Nothing, really. Only that… once you left, the feelings remained. You… I’ve told you how I felt,” he blushed, and Fëanáro’s restrained the urge to pull him close and increase the heat in his face with kisses. “And that much was true,” his brother continued, forcing him to regain focus. “The feelings were there before. But, somehow, whatever happened made me say what I wouldn’t have otherwise.”

Fëanáro drew his brows together. “Why would you keep this to yourself? Haven’t we promised to be truthful to one another?” He chided, but there was kindness in his voice.

Nolofinwë shook his head in denial. “Because, Fëanáro! Nelyafinwë shots glances at me like I am undeserving of the same air you breathe, and maybe I have convinced myself that I am!” Nolofinwë sighed. “Most of the time, I feel I will never be enough for the fire in your spirit,” he said quietly in his deep tone. “It is my weakness,” he finished, hardening his eyes as he waited for his fears to come true and Fëanáro to endorse the opinion.

“Ai, brother, you are not weak! For if this,” he stood up and stood abreast with Nolofinwë, motioning his hand between the space that separated their bodies, “is weakness, then you are mine, and I welcome it with my open arms.”

Nolofinwë’s breath caught, and Fëanáro saw his throat moving with difficulty. He looked inside his brother’s eyes. They were bright again, the blue-diamond that enthralled him since the first time he’d seen them when his brother was a baby. There was no lie in them, nor anger, but the fiercest, purest love.

“I can’t deny your jealousy flatters me, háno,” he smirked. But this wasn’t what he really wanted to say. So he cupped Nolofinwë’s face and let his thumbs caress the cheekbones. Fëanáro took one of his brother’s hand and placed it over his heart. “Although you should know by now, you own me as much as I own you.”

He hoped the answer to his brother’s insecurity would be manifested in his eyes, and how fast his heart beat under his touch.

“Believe me when I say it. I love you, Nolofinwëya…” he murmured, and his brother breathed hard and noisily as if a rock had been taken out of his chest, and his shoulders sagged a little.

Their foreheads touched, and Nolofinwë’s lips sought his for a long, sweet kiss like so few they shared, full of the love and passion that couldn’t ever be put into speech. Despite their situation, likely as they were to be discovered by anyone who might enter the study - their father included - there was no rush. Again, Nolofinwë’s passion fanned his recklessness, and he couldn’t care less if anyone should see them thus. At last, they heard steps too close to the door, and Nolofinwë withdrew with a start.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled, putting distance between their bodies. “What of tomorrow? Is everything ready?” Nolofinwë asked, going around the desk to pour them two goblets of wine.

Fëanáro took the chair he had been sitting and flipped it around, straddling it to face his brother. “Don’t worry, it is all settled for us to leave as soon as the Mingling begins.”

Nolofinwë nodded. “My thanks. I was in no condition to think about any of it since this morning,” he said sheepishly, and Fëanáro smiled, wanting to bring his brother to another embrace, touch his skin and taste his lips again.

“I know my sons are as anxious to be outside the palace with their cousins as we are,” he said instead.

“Yes, we all are in need of fresh air and no prying eyes,” Nolofinwë muttered and leaned on the table with his hip. “What about supplies?”

“There’s enough food to feed the whole palace for weeks, even honeyed milk for the little ones.”

“You are not planning to bring Laríel, are you?” Nolofinwë smirked.

“Well, she _is_ an incredible caretaker. And the children love her.” Nolofinwë opened his mouth to protest, but Fëanáro laughed and raised his hand. “No, she will not come. The only woman that will accompany us, as you might have already guessed, is Irissë. And your sisters, if they indeed join us. I even wondered if Father would want to join us.”

“Father?” Nolofinwë threw his head back and laughed out loud. “It seems you have been away from the palace for far too long, brother,” he grinned beautifully. “Father doesn’t go on hunting since Lalwën was born. Worry not, he won’t try to tag along.”

“What if he does?”

“Well… then…” Nolofinwë stopped. Finwë might actually change his mind seeing all his children are going. “What was the excuse we gave to go on the boat trip again?”

“Actually, that was neither of our doing,” Fëanáro smiled compliantly. “Arafinwë told Father he wanted us, specifically, to join him. Father was left out, but I don’t think he minded then. Now… he might change his mind.”

“I still don’t know how we will manage with our children alone. Having Father, too…”

“It’s unthinkable, I know.”

At that moment, there was a faint knock on the door to which Nolofinwë bid enter. A servant stepped inside and bowed almost to the ground, but not before bestowing an adoring smile to his brother. Fëanáro raised his eyebrows in surprise because Nolofinwë smiled back.

“There is a letter for you, my lord.” She said, extending white and flabby arms and showing him the seal. Her voice was so quiet Fëanáro almost missed it. It was somewhat crooked, as if for the lack of use.

“May you leave it on my study, please?” The gentleness in his brother’s tone was also surprising.

When the odd girl had left, Fëanáro raised his brows at him. “What was that?”

“Hells, Fëanáro, you sound like my wife,” he jested, but Fëanáro’s curiosity wasn’t fully subsided. “That,” Nolofinwë continued, noticing the flash in Fëanáro’s eyes, “is Almawen.”

Fëanáro raised his brows once more, but Nolofinwë’s smile had faltered. His brother sighed and pursed his lips.

“There is something I need to tell you,” he started, voice firm and staring him in the eyes. Fëanáro waited. “Anairë came to me this morning.” Nolofinwë paused, aware of the storm his words might bring. “She wants another child.”

Fëanáro’s heart jolted, and jealousy rose like bile in his throat.

“You have lain with her?” It was more an accusation than a real question.

“No,” Nolofinwë answered promptly. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Fëanáro exploded, standing up and electrifying the grey clouds inside the room, but Nolofinwë didn’t flinch.

“No, not yet, but we will likely do it tonight.”

Fëanáro growled at him and flung the chair back, pacing the room with a hand covering his mouth - a lid of glass covering the top of a volcano. The thought was obnoxious, and even though he knew Nolofinwë’s reasons – weren’t they the same as his own? – he couldn’t make peace with that idea.

“You know I cannot avoid her forever, Fëanáro,” he said. “I owe her.”

The definite tone of Nolofinwë’s voice made him stop, flip the chair back, and sit down again, the storm receding into his skin once more. They spent many long minutes staring at each other, not a word spoken. But all Fëanáro could think of was that, no matter how much he loathed the idea, he knew Nolofinwë was right. If Nerdanel asked for another child, he would give her. He sighed and reached a hand to his brother, who took it and squeezed it hard.

“I also need to tell you something. About Nelyo. It is not your fault you feel the way you do. It is mine.”

Nolofinwë stared at him with a faint frown creasing his brows, and a loud sigh escaped Fëanáro’s lungs. He shared with his brother, then, that Maitimo might resent their relationship, and though they had never openly discussed it his eldest might know about their secret liaison.

“He warned me, you know,” he said, at last, staring at their joined hands, “not to let you break my heart.” His eyes swooped back to Nolofinwë, and he saw, then, a thousand emotions flickering over his brother’s fair features.

Nolofinwë knelt in front of him and crushed his body against Fëanáro’s chest. “I promise I shall never,” Nolofinwë breathed over his shoulder and withdrew to look into his brother’s blazing diamond eyes, a strong grip behind his neck. “Melányë tenn ambar-metta, meldanya.”*

Fëanáro’s heart threatened to burst, so he plunged into his brother’s lips once more, wishing for nothing more than those few days in the woods.

At last, they had settled their disagreement. Once they left the study, their children surrounded them with a thousand and one requests. Some were hungry, some needed bathing, others wanted to sleep. They had a frugal supper of bread, milk, and cheese, and they all went to bed early. All except Nolofinwë – who went to his wife – and Fëanáro, who had started digging a trench beside the bench and the cherry tree and hadn’t left still.

At another flashing image of Nolofinwë succumbing to the pleasures of being buried into another’s body, he bit his lips hard. Under his skin, the thunder, once silenced and controlled, started rumbling deep again. He felt the urge to gallop away, feel the cold wind on his face and smell the pine woods, wet dirt, and feel the infinity of the sky above him. These walls were encasing, but his body was even more so a limitation to the burning of his spirit.

As he was, immersed in his own conflicts, he didn’t hear Maitimo approaching him, and only when his eldest touched his shoulder did he turn. Fëanáro saw the distress in his son’s sleepless eyes and brushed a finger over his jaws, pulling his arm so they could sit side by side on the bench. They sat companionably for a long while until, seeing his father’s disturbance and the bruise in his knuckle, Maitimo spoke.

“What did he do now?” His voice was low, but Fëanáro noted the anger his son couldn’t hide.

“Nelyo...” Fëanáro cupped Maitimos face. “Do not worry.”

Maitimo leaned into his touch and sighed. “What kind of son would I be if I didn’t worry for you?”

“Still the best one I could have wished for, my love,” Fëanáro leaned and kissed his temple.

A comfortable silence settled between them as Maitimo huddled close, and Fëanáro stroke his hair absent-mindedly. Another image flashed behind his closed eyelids, and Fëanáro twitched his hands involuntarily upon Maitimo’s head.

“Atar...” Maitimo breathed in concern, raising his mithril eyes to him.

“Shh, it’s all right, Nelyo.”

“But it is not!” Maitimo turned in full and faced him. “I can’t stand here and do naught when seeing how much he has hurt you. Again!”

Fëanáro couldn’t suppress a small smile, even as the words got stuck in his throat. He breathed in and said: “We all must play our parts.”

He heard Maitimo’s breath hitch and hold. It was the first time they ever spoke about it. “Why?”

“Why, Maitimo, because he must,” he exhaled from his mouth. “It is what it is. I would do the same, were I in the same position,” he caressed Maitimo’s cheek. “You know that.”

Maitimo didn’t answer and lowered his eyes. He licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak, but stopped as if thinking twice. Fëanáro encouraged him with a look, but still, Maitimo hesitated, eyes flickering from the ground to him.

“Is he worthy?” It was merely a whisper, and Fëanáro almost missed it.

He didn’t take his eyes off his son, and his silence was so long that Maitimo covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head. “I am sorry, atar. It is not my place to ask,” he said quietly, eyes lowering to the place his hands curled up in a ball in his lap.

“Yes,” Fëanáro breathed as quietly, answering for both things, heart clenching in pain for his firstborn.

Maitimo had snapped his head up, but lowered his eyes again, nodding and swallowing hard.

“Nelyo...” he began.

“It’s all right, atar,” Maitimo said, looking up; his eyes were resplendent like the stars above them. “It really is. I just want you to be happy. It’s only..." and his eyes lowered once more as if he felt this was a subject beyond him.

“Don’t fret. Tell me,” Fëanáro said gently, stroking Maitimo’s lush copper hair and tucking loose strands behind his ear.

“I have seen how you are when you are together,” he started, quiet and slow, thinking on his next words. “But I also see how you get when you two argue, and I wonder if the happiness he gives you is enough to counterpart the suffering,” he clipped quickly.

Fëanáro sighed again and frowned. Would Maitimo really want to hear his heart’s confession? But before he could answer, Maitimo continued.

“You won’t hurt me by saying it.”

The incredible youth in front of him smiled so sweetly that Fëanáro’s heart swelled with an impossible love. He didn’t even hesitate on the hard admission that put his well-being entirely in the hands of another. He thought, however, how he would tell that to his firstborn.

“I know how difficult a person I can be, and so does he. Your uncle and I spent too long apart, and we still need to find the ground we stand upon.”

“I don’t think that’s the only reason.” Fëanáro cocked his head at him. “You two are the same. You are both proud, hot-headed, and stubborn.”

Fëanáro chuckled. “That we are, and you can see how hard it can be to deal with one such as me.”

And when the smile died on his lips, tears threatened to burn his throat. So, Fëanáro brought Maitimo’s head to his chest and rocked him like the baby he once was. Maitimo breathed in the eucalyptus and fiery scent that was his father and let himself be held.

“Listen, son,” Fëanáro’s voice was muffled on Maitimo’s scalp, no more than the thread of a whisper. “I know how it looks like, but I am happy. As happy as one can be.“ He stopped, and Maitimo clutched the tunic on his back even closer, pressing his nose on Fëanáro’s chest, seeking the beats of the heart that never failed to soothe his worst fears. “I could not stop loving him if I wanted to. Trust me. I have tried. It would be the death of me, as much as if you or one of your brothers forsook me.”

Maitimo clutched onto him harder. “That will never happen, atar! Never! We all love you beyond the boundaries of reason,” his voice was also muffed but sounded fierce and protective.

Fëanáro felt his chest rumble with a groan that he kept behind his teeth. “And I, you, sweetheart.” A kiss on his head. “I don’t know what I would be or do without you and your brothers in my life. And without him, also...”

Maitimo drew back to look into his eyes, and his son’s were brimful of unshed tears. He cupped Maitimo’s face.

“I can see that now. Forgive me for doubting you, atar.”

“Only if you forgive me also.”

“Always, and anything.”

Fëanáro smiled and kissed his son’s forehead. When he looked past Maitimo’s shoulder, Nolofinwë had just descended the stairs and walked into them for the second time that day. He wore nothing but a robe over his naked flesh. He was so beautiful it hurt. Maitimo turned his head over his shoulder, and they exchanged a glance that made Nolofinwë lick his lips and say, lower than usual.

“I see I am intruding. I am sorry,” and as he turned to leave, Maitimo’s call halted his movement. Fëanáro heard him inhale.

“No, uncle. You are not.”

Maitimo extended a hand, and Nolofinwë frowned but approached father and son to take it. His eldest said nothing but smiled. Nolofinwë slanted a brief glance to Fëanáro, a frown still carved in his brows as he approached them. He smelled of fresh lavender, and Fëanáro knew he had bathed before coming to him – the consideration was almost enough to completely quench the jealousy raging in his ears.

Maitimo took the breath off his lungs when he raised both hands to cup Nolofinwë’s face and kissed him full on the lips. Fëanáro was taken aback but not with outrage – ah, yes, and it was so outrageously beautiful! But as Nolofinwë’s lips adjusted to Maitimo’s and they shared one swift, but heated, kiss, his body exploded like a brimming cauldron of lava, leaping up and down his veins and setting his blood afire. He had forgotten Nolofinwë and Maitimo were not so apart in age, and that was a blessing of acceptance for Nolofinwë as his lover. He should have felt more indignant, jealous even, that his own son had the gall to that - and in front of him no less! - but Fëanáro just couldn't. Somehow, it just felt right - and to the hells with their stupid customs, the Valar or whoever else tried to convince him otherwise! He briefly considered if Nolofinwë was Maitimo's secret love interest but it wasn't possible - Maitimo had barely seen him before that day in the pit (and all that followed).

His musings were interrupted when Maitimo and Nolofinwë parted. His son smiled broadly at his half-brother and kissed both of them on their cheeks before running the stairs back to his chambers, leaving an utterly stunned Nolofinwë beside him. His brother watched Maitimo’s silhouette disappear before turning to him.

“Fëanáro, I... I don’t know... what was that?” He, his stern and eloquent brother, stumbled upon his words.

“Why, brother, you know exactly what it was, since you seemed to have quite enjoyed it,” he smirked indiscriminately, not hiding neither his amusement nor his arousal.

Nolofinwë gaped, and he grinned, cupping his brother’s face. He stared inside those blue-jeweled eyes that held him enthralled. Nolofinwë was still a little shaken, and Fëanáro considered that his mind must have been racing with a thousand thoughts before he meddled on the affairs between father and son. Fëanáro brought their foreheads together as they breathed on each other’s mouths for a while until he broke the heavy silence.

“Is it done?” To which Nolofinwë nodded curtly, and grasped his shoulders, closing his eyes.

“Fëanáro...” His name rolled off, trembling in his brother’s tongue irresistibly.

“Shh. It’s done. It’s over, for now, at least,” Fëanáro whispered with infinite tenderness. “Tomorrow we can talk about all of this.”

Nolofinwë sighed. “I need you.”

“So do I, brother.”

“I wish I could-”

“I know,” he muttered, pushing his brother an inch closer.

“I love you, Fëanáro.”

“And I love you, Nolofinwë.”

Their breaths mingled silver and gold before the daybreak, and Fëanáro wished, not for the first time - and, he knew, not for the last – they could stay like that to the end of Arda.

***

The first time Almawen saw her two beloved lords locked in a fierce kiss, her head spun so hard she banged it on the damp stone above her. She sat on one of her hidden corners and crossed her arms over her ribs, rocking back and forth with a panicked look on her face. They were kissing! Having heard naught of the laws and customs that guided her people – and accustomed to seeing the servants always on secret trysts on the pantry – the act itself didn't shock her. She loved them, and they loved each other. A natural reaction, was it not? No, Almawen panicked because what would she tell her lady now?

Until that night, she had succeeded in informing the princess everywhere her beloved lord went, and with whom he was until he finally retired to her bed. Then, Almawen would, sometimes, watch as they made love; she would listen to their soft love sounds, and she would touch herself, imagining she was in the princess' place. It was true that it had been a very long time since they did that, and Almawen was saddened because no beautiful children would come to bring her lord joy. Other nights, when the daily chores were too hard on her, she would retire early and let sleep take her to its peaceful paths. It never even occurred to her to watch her lord while the whole land slept. Where would he go in the dead of night, anyway?

Now, her lord kissed Prince Fëanáro like he didn't kiss anyone else - not even the princess. And they gasped on each other's mouths, and Almawen knew they were lovers, as the servants from the pantries. Certainly, the princess knew, as well? For Prince Nolofinwë wouldn't be able to smother all the fire that Prince Fëanáro lit in his body. And somehow, even as she wondered how much lady Anairë knew, Almawen understood this was a secret, and nobody ought to know.

That thought drove her to the borders of insanity.

Almawen was not a talkative person, and she knew how to keep secrets. But this one was likely to eat the insides of her like a caterpillar on a leaf. Yet, she must take it to Mandos, if need be! If the princess didn't know about this, it didn't matter if Almawen slept on the coldest ground, hidden in the farthest away cave of the Pelóri; she wouldn't betray her lord. Not like that. Because Almawen saw him, both of them when they were alone in each other's arms, and they glowed like the Two Trees, only brighter. How could she ever think of snuffing out their magnificence to mere embers?

No! She couldn't, and she wouldn't! She was determined, and, as clumsy as she was – because Laríel was always kind to remember her many faults – she feared to betray her lord with her awkward mumbling. So, whenever Prince Nolofinwë disappeared and was nowhere to be found, she simply stopped looking, and her reports, then, were always the same: he is closed in council with Prince Fëanáro – an expression she had heard fall from King Finwë's lips several times. The princess would nod gracefully and accept it for the truth. In part, it was. Wherever their council led them, the princess (or anyone else) didn't need to know.

But the longer Prince Fëanáro stayed in the palace, the more frequent were their meetings during the day. And so princess Anairë started to be annoyed by her husband's constant absence, a few times voicing even to her, invisible Almawen, she wished to interrupt their council for whatever reason - to ask Prince Nolofinwë for his help with the children's tasks, or to chose a gown and a piece of jewelry to receive this or that lord.

On these moments, cold sweat ran down Almawen's spine, and she stammered apologies and left the chamber in haste, praying for all the Valar and Eru himself that they would finish counseling and returned to their families in haste. That forced Almawen to hide from the princess, always considering interrupting them herself – their shock would be less great, she decided. They were so intelligent! Surely they could come up with a thousand lies that would convince the princess all the more!

It had never occurred to her that her spying would also be seen as treachery, for she did what she did out of love; such ideas of betrayal never even crossed her mind. If she sometimes hid in her places to hear their voices rising in unison, flowing over each other as the summer breeze that caresses the trees, it was also because she loved them. Her lord's voice was hauntingly beautiful, even on those occasions, and the humming of his blissful moans rang in her ears for days on end.

The day she decided to tell them, however, lady Anairë and her lord bedded again, and she knew it was to beget another child. If she brought these ill tidings to the princess in such an early stage, the seed would whither in her womb, and Almawen would never ever forgive herself if she was the cause for her lord's child never to be born – she loved hem all so much! And so, she kept the secret as best she could. Luckily, as the Princes went on their journey with the children, lady Anairë left for Ilmarin with the Queen and her daughters.

As soon as the princess was gone, Almawen breathed again, wishing fervently that the Prince Nolofinwë would return before lady Anairë, so she could sit in closed council with them – and the mere idea brought a distinguished reddish color to her pale face – so she wouldn’t have to keep that secret alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Melányë tenn ambar-metta, meldanya (Q): I love you unto the ending of the world, beloved (that was obviously made up, thanks to Parf Edhelen and other dictionaries).


	26. Into the woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my dear [Ann_arien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ann_arien/pseuds/Ann_arien), whose support, encouragement, and unwavering inspiration have brought forth another chapter much sooner than I was expecting! I hope you like it!! <3

When their trip began, Nolofinwë was nervous and anxious as he hadn’t been since his last examinations with Rúmil that granted him the master’s approval on lore. It was a ridiculous thought, and he knew how childish he was being. But one thing was to be in the palace, where he could put on his mask in front of everyone else and escape with Fëanáro when he could. Another thing entirely was spending weeks in the wilds with his children and nephews – and his other brother! Before they departed, Nolofinwë hadn’t known how on Eä they would do it: how would he be able to be around Fëanáro as his brother hunted with deadly precision, muscles and sinews stretching beautifully with the bow, or bathed on the river – his naked body as much that of a god as any Valar – without falling into the temptation of worshiping it. There could be no furtiveness that one of the children wouldn’t notice.

It was with relief and wonderment that, once the journey began, being in both his brother’s and the children’s company was not a toll whatsoever. There was freedom in the smiles and in the light behind their eyes, in the way the wind lifted their hairs, and their laughter rang loud and clear. Many times Nolofinwë caught himself smiling with the smaller ones’ banter and the healthy competition of races, climbing, swimming, and even hunting. Often Arafinwë joined them, rolling on the floor with the toddlers as if he was one of them. As days passed, he realized, with a nostalgic sting, that he could indeed be happy like this, in the wilds, with those around him – only if his children would never grow!

Did Findekáno outgrow his clothes again? Nolofinwë looked closer to his eldest breeches as they walked and, no doubt, they were shorter than a mere months ago. He sighed and looked down at Irissë – hanging on a strip of cloths that Laríel had taught him to tie around his chest – and even his baby girl looked more developed, her little teeth growing and her legs stretching as if she was an eager sprout. Irissë stared back at him and smiled adoringly, earning a round of kisses on her soft cheeks.

They traveled slow and unhurriedly, stopping every now and then so Fëanáro could point at some different flower, ask its properties to anyone brave enough to answer and try his scrutiny. Findaráto proved to be well-instructed, and both he and his brother were impressed with Arafinwë’s eldest. Not surprisingly, however, Findekáno was always one of the firsts who attempted – even if he failed more than not. His face would burn up red, and Maitimo would laugh and ruffle his hair, teasing, and all the initial shame would be simply forgotten. Maitimo, who was a handsome young man, whose lips tasted of strawberries… at that moment, Findekáno turned to him and tilted his head, and Nolofinwë felt his own face grow hot with his son’s inquisitive stare. Findekáno came to his side and took his hand, smiling at him so sweetly Nolofinwë thought he could crush his son’s beautiful head against his chest.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes! I never thought we would do this one day!” He beamed his father a precious smile.

“Me neither,” Nolofinwë laughed back.

They were the last in line now because Nolofinwë and Fëanáro had agreed that the latter will go first, leading the way, and he would go last, making sure none was left behind. They walked in silence for a while, and Findekáno made no mention of letting his father’s hand go, so Nolofinwë took that as a cue.

“You like your cousin,” he stated, and Findekáno’s blue eyes shone upon him. There was no need to name the one he spoke of.

“He’s brilliant!” Findekáno said breathlessly. “He teaches me a lot of things he said he learned with uncle Fëanáro.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Nolofinwë chuckled.

“And he is so strong! Have you seen him killing that wolf the other night?”

Nolofinwë nodded with a half-smile. That had been something terribly foolish – or remarkably courageous – of his nephew.

“The way he held the knife and slashed its throat, and all the blood splashed on him,” Findekáno moved his arm, mimicking a knife’s movements, eyes sparkling with the excitement of youth eager to prove his valor likewise. “And he wasn’t even afraid!”

Nolofinwë fell silent. “Can you feel him, Finno?” He asked at last, after a pause, drawing Findekáno’s gaze to meet his. “Like you can feel me?”

“Hu-hum,” was the youth’s answer, followed by a very red color that crept from his neck to the tip of his ear. Nolofinwë felt his heart give an involuntary jump. “Well, not exactly like you.” He sighed in relief. What was this? Was he jealous of Maitimo now, as well? He chastised himself for a moment until he realized Findekáno’s eyes were still on him, very much aware.

“How is it, then?” He asked, trying to smile and look relaxed.

“It’s like…” Findekáno looked up to the sky, searching for his words, “every time I look at him, I see his fëa returning the stare, even if his eyes don’t. I can see it glow with pleasure or recoil in pain.”

Nolofinwë considered this. “And what is it like when you look at me?”

“I don’t need to look at you to know you, atar,” he answered softly. “I know your feelings as if they were my own.”

“I know, sweetheart.” By now, thirty years later, Nolofinwë was already used to how keenly his son reacted to his feelings. “I wish you didn’t, sometimes,” he whispered, smiling sadly.

Findekáno stared at him and squeezed his hands tighter. “I wouldn’t wish for anything else because it’s our special link.”

Nolofinwë chuckled and stopped their walk to pull him into a well-earned embrace that soon got Irissë complaining. “You are my bright little star, Finno, and I love you more than my own life.”

“I know, atar, and I love you also.”

Findekáno broke the embrace and looked at him intently, in the characteristic way of his to assess his father’s feelings and see them reflected not only in his soul but in the spark of his eyes and the line of his mouth. His son looked like he wanted to say something, and Nolofinwë waited. If he wanted to, Findekáno would, there was no need to insist. It was impossible to hide anything from him, anyway. After a long moment staring at each other, they were interrupted by a voice calling him softly from the trail ahead.

“Brother? Is everything alright?” Fëanáro peeked out from a large tree trunk.

Nolofinwë’s chest was invaded with such happiness that threatened to overflow him, and he felt his lips curving up irresistibly, as with the pull of the tide. Findekáno smiled also, and the boy slipped one arm around his waist, burying his head on Nolofinwë’s chest – he also planted a kiss on Irissë’s cheek.

“Yes! Yes, it is,” Nolofinwë held his eldest close and closed his eyes. He breathed out gradually, and, when he opened his eyes again, Fëanáro was smiling at him in such a way that his heart didn’t feel like it was his any more, but something else, with a life of its own.

“We were a little worried that something might have happened to you,” Fëanáro apologized for the interruption, “so we’ve set camp a few miles ahead.”

“We will be there shortly. Thank you, Fëanáro,” he whispered, and his brother nodded with that perfect white-toothed smile that lightened the whole forest around them.

Findekáno didn’t let go, however. The slim arms tightened the grip, and Nolofinwë felt, distinctly, unmeasurable love flowing from his son’s body to his. Somehow, he knew he didn’t have to admit to Findekáno how much he loved his brother, or what that love meant. The boy could sense it, and multiplied it tenfold, to a point where Nolofinwë felt the back of his hand wet and realized it was his tears, spilling without his knowledge. It was joy too great to be contained, it needed a way out. So he held Findekáno and Irissë close – the girl, enveloped in the blissful aura, had fallen asleep – and let the tears wash over his face and soul.

***

A wineskin passed from hand to hand around the campfire. Even the young ones were allowed a few sips as the story Arafinwë was telling rolled off his tongue with ease, a mischievous smile on his face. The children were enthralled, wide-eyes, and expectant. Many gathered in a semi-circle around him – Turukáno held his knees against his chest – to hear the end of the tale. Irissë was perched in his lap and looked up at him with big blue eyes, a physical trait passed on from their mother to her entire line. In Arafinwë’s family, it was mixed with Eärwen’s Telerin blood, and the indigo color, so characteristic in his sons, was crystal blue in his youngest brother’s.

“And when we thought Ossë had already played enough, we heard his laughter, as the boats tossed up and down the waves…”

Findekáno sat on his right, and Maitimo beside him – as it was custom, neither able to leave the other’s side any longer. Little Kurvo slept in Maitimo’s arms, but one of his eldest nephew’s hand was entangled in Finno’s raven hair. Nolofinwë caught Findekáno leaning to the touch with closed eyes, only half-listening to the story, enraptured by the ministrations he was receiving. Was it that obvious to anyone, as it was for him, what was happening to his firstborn?

Fëanáro, who had his legs stretched in front of him and crossed in his ankles, sat on his left. His head was tipped back to the tree in which he leaned, and his eyes were closed – but his lips were shaped in the form of a smile, so Nolofinwë knew he was awake. Nolofinwë shifted slightly, pressing a little closer until their shoulders touched.

“…and Ossë ignored Uinen’s plea to leave the boat be, coming at us in thrice renewed anger! Oh, how we prayed to Ulmo to stop the two lover’s quarrel...!”

There were some gasps among the children, and he heard Fëanáro chuckle by his side, eyes blazing upon him behind half-open lids, and they shared an amused look. As Arafinwë’s story progressed through the night, seemingly endless, Nolofinwë watched, first, as his brother chuckled more constantly than he should; the tale was an adventure, and had nothing funny about it – except that it was filled with the Valar’s interference, without whom, according to Arafinwë, they wouldn’t have taken one single step.

The story ended with a song about the mysteries of the sea. Even untrained, Arafinwë’s voice was sweet, and, little by little, the youngsters fell asleep, cousins and brothers cuddling close beneath blankets. Macalaurë had picked up his harp, and the melody he played was a wonder to listen to. Only a few were awake once the tale and music were over, and the eldest helped to quickly tuck in the small ones before going to their own bedrolls.

Nolofinwë took Irissë from his brother’s arms and waited for her to sleep in his shoulder, while, by his side, Fëanáro was doing the same with Morifinwë, whispering endearments in his ear. When Nolofinwë at last laid on his back and looked up at the stars, sleep eluded him, and he remained listening to the soft breathing of his sons and nephews. Fëanáro’s, however, wasn’t among them – and he could sense his brother’s fëa no longer. He propped up in one elbow and scanned the camp. He wasn’t there, indeed. Nolofinwë stood up and quietly put his boots back on, going behind the line of bedrolls where the trees were thicker.

Only a few minutes track from the camp the land was cut abruptly, and a valley extended below, shining under starlight. He followed the tug of his heart and, on the verge of the cliff, stood his brother – hair flowing behind him like a black cloud, hands clasped in front of his body, and, by his poise, Nolofinwë knew he had his eyes closed and was listening to the sounds of the forest. A curious raccoon peeked out of the bushes and swiftly climbed a tree.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he heard his brother say quietly to the wind.

Nolofinwë smiled and stood beside him, shoulders and arms touching, to face the valley. The air was clear, and the same cold breeze that lifted his brother’s hair now enveloped him in its tendrils. The scent of pines and fresh green leaves reached his senses, mixed with the heady eucalyptus, fiery smell coming from his brother’s skin, and he inhaled deeply. They stood in silence for a long while, and Nolofinwë could feel the heat that emanated from Fëanáro’s body where it touched his, spreading through his back and hand. It felt good, but it also left the rest of his body deprived, and he shivered.

Fëanáro looked at him, and flung one arm around his waist, pulling him closer until their heads touched. When he turned to face his brother, the fire behind those diamond eyes seared through him and turned his knees into jelly. It was always so. When filled with such love and desire, his brother’s gaze had the power to erase any thought from his mind. He couldn’t possibly resist it, so Nolofinwë buried both hands in Fëanáro’s hair, and massaged it with his thumbs, drawing their bodies close and their mouths closer. Fëanáro’s hands on his back were warm, and Nolofinwë knew, even as he breathed in the intoxicating sight, that no matter the storm those arms could conjure, he would rather be in the eye of the hurricane than live safely – and forgotten – out of it.

Nolofinwë kissed his forehead and dropped little kisses on his eyes, nose, and cheeks. He didn’t want to reach that point of no return in which their passion would blind their senses, and neither could stop once they started. Yet Fëanáro could be raised with the lightest caresses and, as their bodies pressed close, Nolofinwë drank his brother’s wanton gasp feeling as their erections ground maddeningly against the other.

“We can’t,” Fëanáro breathed over his lips. “Brother, we can’t.”

“No,” he whispered, feeling the satiny touch of the raven hair.

Suddenly, a loud snore broke the silence of the forest, and they stopped in mid-action, mouths eager to devour. For a few tense seconds, Nolofinwë’s heart jumped with the possibility that a bear had approached the camp. A second snore, as loud and in rhythm with the first, made their mouths twitch with mirth and explode into laughter. They laughed, leaning against each other until Nolofinwë’s sides hurt, and he had to gulp for air. Each expected the other to stop laughing first but, as the snoring continued, so did the hilarity, and tears fell down Nolofinwë’s cheeks. Fëanáro doubled over and started making incomprehensible hand gestures.

Nolofinwë tried to help him straight up, and a choked snore made him lose his equilibrium and fall over his brother, both still unable to form words. They laid on their backs on the turf, trying to make the other silent. Fëanáro had both hands pressed to his stomach, and he was panting for air. The uncontrollable laughter slowly subsided, and they snickered at one another.

“Námo’s stick, who is making that noise?” Fëanáro chortled, trying to suppress another outburst.

“Arafinwë,” he kept smiling, even as his jaws ached. Fëanáro widened his eyes and laughed out loud again, both wavering on the brink of another crisis. “You have no idea what it is to sleep in the same room with him!”

“Eru, I wonder how his wife can!”

“I have heard they sleep in different chambers, and still, she can hear his snoring.” Another round of roaring shouts and Nolofinwë, unable to control himself, covered his face with his hands lest all the camp would wake.

At last, he sighed out loud and wiped the new tears that prickled his eyes. The romanticism was shattered, but Nolofinwë didn’t remember the last time he had laughed so wholeheartedly. When he looked again at Fëanáro, his brother was staring at the stars above them. Nolofinwë moved to rest his head over his brother’s shoulder, and they watched as the silvery light waxed.

“We are close, now,” Fëanáro broke the silence quietly, without looking at him.

Nolofinwë frowned in confusion. Fëanáro turned his head, then, eyes brighter than the Mingling, and the realization came to him.

“Will you come with me?” His brother asked, not able to hide the yearning in his voice.

Nolofinwë wasn’t sure about leaving all the children behind with only Arafinwë as an adult to take care of them. It was a lot of responsibility, and his youngest wasn’t exactly known for his maturity – hells, sometimes he could be worst than the worst child! As if Fëanáro could read his thoughts, he said:

“I will ask Nelyo to help our brother.” Nolofinwë stared at him, wondering how much his eldest nephew would hate him for letting all his children in his care. “Don’t worry,” Fëanáro husked, guessing his fears, and brushing them away with the back of his hand. “Nelyo knows how much we need it. Besides, he has taken care of all his siblings. I promise you, he won’t mind.”

Nolofinwë sighed. He didn’t like letting his nephew with such a burden, fearing to be harshly judged once more. But then, he remembered Maitimo’s acceptance kiss, and his face burned with inexplicable heat.

“Of course I’ll go,” Nolofinwë replied, at last, throwing Fëanáro a look that made his brother smile that way he loved – the way that took his breath away every single time. _I’ll go with you to the ends of Arda_.

***

It had been many years since Nolofinwë last wandered through the woods. He followed Fëanáro through the trail that led to the abandoned hut. Nolofinwë didn’t know what to expect. He knew Fëanáro had told Arafinwë they were going hunting, because they needed this time alone and, by the look on his youngest’s face, Arafinwë agreed.

“Whatever it takes for you to be happy with each other,” he had muttered with a soft smile.

Nolofinwë couldn’t say how much he was thankful. His children were happy in their cousin’s company, and he knew they wouldn’t miss him. Perhaps only Turukáno, but he had trusted Findekáno to look over his younger brother and sister. His beautiful little star had simply smiled and kissed his cheek.

“We will be back in a few days, I promise,” he had said to them.

Even Nelyafinwë, who once seemed to have resented him, gave them encouraging grins – and honest, too, for all Nolofinwë could tell – assuring everything was going to be alright, that they need not to worry. As they approached the hut, however, Nolofinwë was plagued by doubts once more.

Not because he believed Fëanáro didn’t love him – no, not anymore. Those weeks in the woods had brought them closer in a way that all nights spent together in the palace hadn’t. They had begun sewing back their friendship like broken vases glued together with a paste made from Laurelin’s pools and shone golden where once there were cracks. The revering looks he sometimes got from Fëanáro went straight into his soul, and he was able to see how much love streamed from those blazing diamond eyes. Nolofinwë no longer doubted the place he occupied in his brother’s heart.

No. Nolofinwë doubted their capacity to stay at peace.

It didn’t matter how much they loved one another if they couldn’t make it work and get along. They needed to find a way to reach to the other in the moments of tension – something neither he nor Fëanáro had learned yet. He snorted with the thought that the most brilliant and unique Elf in Arda was incapable of besting him in this, as well. Nolofinwë wondered… whenever Fëanáro wanted to master something, he needed only to put his mind to it, and the accomplishment would follow like fruit follows flower. So why wasn’t he trying?

Something in the back of his head told him, again, that carnal pleasure clouded Fëanáro’s judgment, and maybe it was indeed true. However, if it was so, they would have to find another solution because there was no way Nolofinwë was going to give up on that! He chuckled to himself, and Fëanáro, who walked in front of him, turned his head over his shoulder and smiled.

“What is so funny?” He asked with his infinite childish curiosity.

“The idea that I would have to give up having sex with you, so you could focus on our problems,” he quipped.

Nolofinwë had also learned that, whenever he would try to conceal his true words, Fëanáro would sense the ones he had hidden, and that would, inevitably, turn into a fight. It was better to come straight. Fëanáro halted in his tracks and turned in full to see him – a glorious sight that made Nolofinwë stare, agape. He titled his head, and Nolofinwë sensed outrage simmering somewhere deep inside his chest. But he was determined not to let it boil over.

“Do you think that sex is the source of our problems? _All_ of them?” Fëanáro questioned, and Nolofinwë felt like when he was a child, put to the test in one of his big brother’s brilliant projects.

“No, I didn’t say that,” he whispered softly, reaching his brother’s hand and caressing it with his thumb. “I also didn’t say that I would do it, anyway, because the mere thought of giving up any part of you is absurd.”

Fëanáro just looked at him in that manner of his, intent and unblinking – the way that had half of Tirion’s court squirming under his gaze, terrified of his explosive reputation, and the other half falling madly in love with him.

“Keep talking,” his brother purred, and Nolofinwë had a long chuckle.

“See? Anytime we try to talk seriously, we get distracted with each other.”

“I would say that is a great way of being distracted.”

“It is. The best possible. But it’s also a little unnerving when we can’t get anything else done.”

“What else needs to be done?” Fëanáro asked promptly, and Nolofinwë held his breath.

This was how all of their arguments were born. His brother was incapable of seeing what was right under his nose – his obsession and self-absorbency, even if the cause for this was Nolofinwë himself – and Nolofinwë trying, unsuccessfully, to show his behavior for what it was. Fëanáro, however, had proven to be stubbornly blind when it came to that. So he breathed out slowly and was surprised when Fëanáro’s hands cupped his chin and brought their eyes to meet again. His smile was blinding, and Nolofinwë’s heart jolted involuntarily, as it always did.

“I was joking, brother,” Fëanáro leaned to kiss his mouth softly. “Of course, it is very difficult to resist your sight, let alone your touch, but I am getting better, don’t you think?” As a manner of example, he turned away to resume their hike, leaving Nolofinwë adrift and, the place where his hand had touched, cold.

“Are you now?” Nolofinwë teased.

“If it wasn’t for my steely restraint last night, brother, I know we would’ve gone down into the dirt to rut like beasts,” Fëanáro said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, sure, it had nothing to do with the beast that is Arafinwë’s snore,” he laughed. Fëanáro stopped abruptly and stood silent for a moment. “Brother? What is it?” Nolofinwë whispered, guessing he might have spotted some game.

“Varda’s tits!” Fëanáro cursed out loud, and Nolofinwë widened his eyes in alarm. He was about to say something when his brother continued. “I cannot believe I forgot to tease Arafinwë about it this morning! I talked to him and forgot to mention it! How come? In what kind of Elf am I turning to?” He asked seriously, one hand resting in Nolofinwë’s shoulder in feigned indignation.

Nolofinwë caught the glint in his eyes, and their laughter resounded through the woods, driving away all chance of shooting anything stealthily. They laced their hands and resumed their track for the rest of the morning.

When they, at last, found the hut, it was nearly noon. Fëanáro was giddy with excitement, and Nolofinwë’s face hurt with all the smiling he had done for the past hours. The cabin was small, entirely made of wood but, as he stepped inside the threshold and looked around, his eyes widened in astonishment: it was comfortable like few houses he had ever seen. The furniture was made of light wood, smooth and polished. A stove and a few cabinets made a cozy kitchen; on one corner, there was a bed covered in furs and, on the other, a bathtub made of white marble. It didn’t look at all abandoned!

There was also a wooden table with two chairs beneath a draped window, from where golden light peered inside. It was already set for a meal, with fruits, cheese, bread, and cold meat. Fëanáro had already lit the fire, and now was opening a bottle of sparkling white wine. Nolofinwë was still a little stunned and hadn’t moved. His brother merely smiled and handed him a goblet of pale-yellow and bitter wine – his favorite kind.

“When did you prepare all of this?” He managed to ask.

“Last night,” Fëanáro answered nonchalantly.

“I thought you said it was abandoned,” he smirked.

“It is. No one comes here, except for the Maiar of Oromë, occasionally.”

“And how do you know we won’t be interrupted?”

“I don’t.” They will be driven away by the wreck we’re going to make. Fëanáro threw him a white-toothed grin, and Nolofinwë laughed out loud as if he could hear his brother’s thoughts.

They ate slowly, enjoying the light, the food, and the wine, their legs gently tangling under the table. Their chewing was punctuated by small comments of appreciation. After he was done, Nolofinwë stretched on his chair, and his legs got in between Fëanáro’s. His brother touched his knee and smiled beautifully. Nolofinwë was a little anxious. What was supposed to happen now? He saw his brother rubbing his other hand on his leg and realized, with a start, Fëanáro was also nervous. He snorted at that. Two idiots, they were, for feeling thus in each other’s presence.

He stood up, then, and went around the table to stand before his brother. Fëanáro meant to rise, too, but Nolofinwë pushed him back on the chair and straddled him, smiling satisfyingly with Fëanáro’s intake of breath. Nolofinwë licked his brother’s lips, and they shared the first of many heated kisses until, seeing that his brother hadn’t made any attempt to move them to the bed, Nolofinwë slipped to the floor and knelt in front of him.

He fumbled with the laces of Fëanáro’s breeches, cursing low as his fingers failed to untie one knot, and his brother ran a hand on his hair, the way he liked to do, letting the strands flow between his fingers like water. When the breeches finally came undone, Nolofinwë sprang his brother’s length free. As he peered upward, he bit his lips to contain the pressing need to devour. Fëanáro watched him with bated breath and blown-wide pupils as he waited for wet bliss to envelop him. Nolofinwë let his hair slide down Fëanáro’s thighs, relieving the heat in his loins, and inhaled the intoxicating scent of his flushed flesh.

He kissed Fëanáro’s stomach with tongue and teeth, until his brother’s breath was shallow, legs trembling with desire. Fëanáro forced his head down once, and Nolofinwë chuckled as he took the tip in his mouth and sucked, licking the slit every now and again. Fëanáro moaned behind his gritted teeth until he was spilling incoherent curses. Nolofinwë took him in full, and he placed his hands on Fëanáro’s thighs. The touch of their skins provoked the already familiar – but still, always extraordinary – jolt of lightening running from one body to the other. Fëanáro jerked his hips involuntarily with a cry, and his erection throbbed upon Nolofinwë’s tongue.

He hummed with the pleasure, full-mouthed, and a thrill ran down his spine with his brother’s oral manifestations. Underneath him, Fëanáro thrust his hips upward and hissed as Nolofinwë’s tongue darted over the crown and bobbed up and down. He tasted the upcoming climax as his name fell off Fëanáro’s lips and, ignoring the protests to stop, Nolofinwë tightened the grip on his thighs – as Fëanáro tightened the grip on his head – and he sucked to the back of his throat. Fëanáro cried out, and seed spurted in his mouth. He relished at the taste the now-familiar essence of his brother’s body and drank it dry. Fëanáro sat limply for some moments, hands still entangled in his hair, and Nolofinwë rested his chin over crossed arms on top of his brother’s thighs, smiling when he reopened his eyes.

“I told you to wait,” Fëanáro muttered weakly.

“I wanted to do that for a long time, and I couldn’t wait.”

Fëanáro chuckled, but Nolofinwë stood up and started to undress, his eyes fixed on Fëanáro as his brother was fastened on him. When he stood in naught but his skin, flushed erection jutting against his alabaster skin, Fëanáro was already hard again.

“Aren’t you coming?” Nolofinwë asked with a grin.

“I thought you said that sex drives me away from serious matters,” he said, voice thick with desire, but stood up nonetheless.

“Well, I decided we’ve already talked too much,” Nolofinwë said breathlessly as he slowly picked up the laces of Fëanáro’s tunic and undressed him slowly, kissing every inch of his hot skin.

They were moving to the bed, but before he could lie down, Fëanáro tugged his hand and pulled him back inside the strong grip of his arms.

“I want you to take me,” he declared unceremoniously.

Nolofinwë blinked. His heart raced, and his mouth was suddenly dry. Even though he had always wanted to possess his brother in body and spirit, like Fëanáro had done to him countless times, he never really dared to ask, waiting for Fëanáro to grow into the idea and allow it.

“I want you to take me,” he grinned, nipping Nolofinwë’s jaw, throat, and earlobe, soft tongue darting ever so slightly and making his skin break into goosebumps.

He drew back and stared inside Nolofinwë’s incredulous face. “I want to feel you inside me,” Fëanáros eyes, glazed with lust, were almost impossible to look at.

Nolofinwë could do nothing but kiss him passionately until his feet felt like they had been swept from the ground, and he levitated. He guided Fëanáro to the bed, and, as his brother laid down, his heart stopped, for that was the most enticing and beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. Fëanáro rolled on his belly, exposing his broad back, and Nolofinwë drank greedily of that sight. His hands were suddenly sweaty and nervous, heart fluttering in his chest.

Tremulously, he let his fingers travel Fëanáro’s perfect flesh, drawing the contours of his muscles, every curve, and sinew. How could he ever do it justice with simple, crude words? His brother’s body was made for worship, and Nolofinwë knew, in that minute, he would praise him as the god he was. Slowly at first, he dropped soft kisses wherever he could, delighting in the way Fëanáro’s body twitched slightly with pleasure. Lightheaded with desire, he left a wet track of kisses and bites from his nape unto the base of the spine, ending in his dimples – two perfect cavities, like a gift from Eru, that made him want to spill wine there and lick it clean.

But he couldn’t now - not when his teeth closed around the taut buttocks, and further down, on the back of his thighs. Nolofinwë’s tongue explored with care and taking his time, down to the calves and back to the curve of the buttocks. Fëanáro moaned softly, face buried in arms crossed under his head. Every time Nolofinwë’s mouth got bolder, Fëanáro hissed, and his muscles tensed with anticipation. At last, he slipped his tongue inside the opening and felt his own length throb painfully between his legs as his brother let out a surprised gasp. He slicked the entrance and relished with the feral response. Nolofinwë added inexperienced fingers that quickly learned their pace and gave precise little stabs. Fëanáro cried and writhed, and Nolofinwë felt drunk and dazed and knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer.

“Turn around,” he pleaded with a hoarse voice. “I want to look at you.”

Fëanáro did, and the lust that blazed even behind half-closed lids shot a spike of desire that threatened to undo him. Fëanáro propped himself in one elbow and reached for the night table – which Nolofinwë, in his haze, hadn’t even realized it was there. Fëanáro handled a vial into his trembling hands and secured them both between his strong, calloused ones.

Nolofinwë breathed hard through his nose and swallowed. “Have you…?”

Fëanáro’s lips quirked up in a sly smile. “No. Come here.”

Nolofinwë nodded and watched, enspelled, as Fëanáro slicked him with the sweet-scented oil, squeezing gently, and fanning his desire to new heights. He breathed out a moan and shuddered, but his brother’s hand quickly withdrew, knowing he would be spent too soon if the maddening ministrations continued. They shared a giddy smile, and Nolofinwë let his weight fall on top of his brother’s body as he kissed the white column of his throat and traveled hands and tongue down Fëanáro’s torso. His fingers found Fëanáro’s shaft and wrapped around it, moving them slowly and tracing the engorged tip with his thumb, spreading the pearls that already glistened it.

Nolofinwë felt his brother’s hard breathing on his neck, and he searched his mouth for a rough kiss as Fëanáro threw his legs around his waist and pulled him closer until he nudged the entrance. Fëanáro’s hands buried on his hair, and they bit each other’s lips as his brother forced himself down. Burning heat enveloped him, and, for a moment, Nolofinwë gasped in pain, thinking he wouldn’t be able to handle it. Fëanáro pushed down even further and sheathed himself with a cry until Nolofinwë’s thighs touched buttocks. A sheen layer of sweat broke on both theirs skins, and he heard his voice calling Fëanáro’s name.

They stood on the brink of madness without moving, both breathing hard through their noses, gazes locked in absolute abandon as the world tilted around them. Nolofinwë, completely took over by lust, found his brother’s wrists and shoved them above his head. Fëanáro’s eyes, usually bright, were almost black with his blown-wide pupils, and Nolofinwë watched as his brother’s breast rose faster up and down. Fëanáro rolled his hips, and they both muffled their cries in each other’s mouths as they moved slowly, in rhythm.

He shifted slightly, and Fëanáro threw back his head, eyes closed, a throaty moan erupting from his lungs, making Nolofinwë’s movement grow bolder and fiercer. Soon, the heat that clenched around him was nearly unbearable. He had shut his eyes and swam in a pool of lava, with every vein in his body searing hot, as his brother’s cries flayed his nerves and senses to a place beyond pleasure. Blood thundered in his ears, and he was rapidly lost, sinking deeper and welcoming it with all his being. When he opened his eyes again, Fëanáro had his lips parted, from whence a delicious moan escaped now and then. It was an intoxicating sight, and Nolofinwë groaned and rode furiously. If he had ever fantasized how marvelous it could be, he had no words for it now.

He plunged, and his mind followed his body. Their gazes locked intensely, both fëas fluttering around them, trembling to break free from the agonizing bliss. As pleasure peaked, he was taken by a white-blinding light, and he felt a sharp tug as his fëa struggled to keep inside his hröa.

 _Nolofinwëya_ , he heard distinctly in his brother’s voice.

But he was staring at Fëanáro, and his lips hadn’t moved. He tried focusing on what had just happened, but the raging lust reeled his senses, and he couldn’t think. Deep down, however, Nolofinwë knew they were experiencing something entirely new. Their bodies were singing as two attuned instruments. He heard music, and he knew it was their Song sounding together from the depths of their consciences.

As if sensing the deeper bond, his brother’s fingers and nails clawed his back and thighs.

“Go on, harder!” Fëanáro groaned from far away.

At last, hands toughening their grip on Fëanáro’s slippery hip, Nolofinwë heard himself repeating his brother’s name over and over. He closed his eyes and knew his mouth was open, but no sound came. For what it seemed a second that lasted an excruciating eternity, Nolofinwë felt his head explode in supernovas, and golden heat flowed from him. He felt hot fluid spurting between their bodies, and that same white, blinding light engulfed him once more. He didn’t know how, but he knew it to be Fëanáro’s fëa joining with his.

When he opened his eyes again, blood pounded violently in his head, and little mots of light danced before his eyes. He rested on Fëanáro’s shoulder, and his brother ran one trembling hand on his hair, as the other was clasped with his on his chest, above his heart. Their bodies were still joined, and Nolofinwë felt no inclination to lose the contact. He searched for his brother’s eyes, and Fëanáro had a huge, lazy smile on his face.

_Nolofinwëya._

Again, he heard his brother’s voice in his mind. He tried raising on his arms, but they quivered and gave up with the effort.

“Oh, gods,” he laughed as he collapsed, incapable of moving.

“Shh, stay put. You don’t need to go anywhere.” Fëanáro’s legs tightened their grip around his waist, pressing their chests even closer. _I could hold you forever, beloved_.

Nolofinwë blinked several times, hearing the soothing heartbeat of his lover. _I love you, Fëanáro_ , he tried, sending it into his brother’s mind. Nolofinwë felt his brother’s heart racing like a deer in the forest. He slowly raised his head, and their eyes met, unshed tears glistening and heightening the already incredible brightness of his diamond gaze. Fëanáro raised a hand, and Nolofinwë’s throat closed with emotion when trembling fingers touched his cheeks.

He leaned forward, and they shared a long, tender kiss, their tongues sliding lazily, exploring the velvety caves. Nolofinwë, still buried deep inside, felt himself stirring, and he gasped on Fëanáro’s lips as pressure build around him with scorching heat. Fëanáro chuckled, and Nolofinwë couldn’t stop thinking about the irony that his body craved for this, even if his heart had feared sex was all there was to their relationship. It was not. He knew now it was not.

Nevertheless, he meant to withdraw when a sharp response came into his mind. _Don’t stop_. He shuddered, every fiber in his body shaking with renewed, impossible need.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered at the same time he felt Fëanáro’s length swelling against his belly, eyes glazed with ever-present lust.

“I do.”

His lips plummeted to devour Nolofinwë, tongues filling each other’s mouths, their teeth nipping at the lower lips until both covered their gasps of excruciating pleasure with more frenzied kisses. Nolofinwë rolled his hips and drank Fëanáro’s moan. He felt strong hands pushing his chest away with such conviction he was forced to withdraw, a wolfish smile growing on his brother’s sultry lips at the same time he pushed Nolofinwë down to the bed and reached his arm to the night table, where the vial was still open.

He dipped three fingers, and Nolofinwë’s breath hitched. Fëanáro came on top of him and kissed him deeply, insistently, as his long fingers probed Nolofinwë’s entrance with such skill that almost undid whatever coherence was left in him. Nolofinwë felt his back arching to the delicious intrusion, and, in no time, his brother’s length was breeching him, filling his being with fire and passion.

They were soon lost in a haze of roaring lust, blind and deaf to anything but the searing ecstasy as they raced toward the abyss with wild abandon. Nolofinwë’s mind was a white mass of need, and he was suddenly whimpering, tottering on the brink of orgasm. He could let Fëanáro finish off like that, and he would relish it, but that was not what he wanted. Without a word, he wrapped his legs firmly around Fëanáro’s waist – to the point his brother noticed the grip with a furrowed, discomforted, brow – and flipped him.

Nolofinwë laughed as he came on top, and Fëanáro tried to wrestle him back. But Nolofinwë bested him, and, once he had straddled his brother, he lowered himself on the pulsing rod once, twice, until Fëanáro groaned hoarsely, grabbed him and forced his body down, as he jerked his hips up. Nolofinwë cried out and slowly withdrew, leaving his brother breathlessly expectant. A furious thrill ran down his spine: it was not every day he could see his brother rendered speechless.

He dipped his head and kissed Fëanáro’s throat, his nipples, and his stomach.

“Get back here!” he heard the husky command.

Nolofinwë, however, chuckled and flipped Fëanáro on his back, giving him no time to think. He raised his brother’s hips – and he shivered as Fëanáro obliged and climbed on all fours. Nolofinwë ran his middle finger down the spine and grabbed the hips, burying himself once more in one fluid motion. Fëanáro let out a long moan and bucked back; Nolofinwë slammed brutally, no gentleness left. The heat in his loins was nearly unbearable as each of his mighty thrusts tore hoarse cries from his brother’s lungs.

Faintly, from somewhere far away, he heard Fëanáro call his name, and he couldn’t say if it came from speech or thought. Finally, when he was once again on the verge of the abyss, he looped his wrist around Fëanáro’s glossy hair and pulled hard. His brother arched his back like a bowstring, beautiful. And it was too much. The movement tore a scream from his brother, who convulsed and spilled from the internal stimulation alone. Fënáro let his head drop between his arms with a faint, guttural moan. He rammed a few more thrusts and groaned, as blinding pleasure burned his senses raw, and he could think of nothing else. A violent shudder wracked him, and his eyes closed shut as a helpless cry broke from his body.

He fell over his brother’s broad back, feeling the dampness of their skins touching, his breath hot on Fëanáro’s shoulder blades. They soared through orgasmic bliss until their breaths were deep and stable again. When Nolofinwë finally pulled back, Fëanáro groaned and collapsed with a hiss of pain.

“I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry,” Nolofinwë reached out an exhausted, tremulous hand, and brushed wet hair away from his brother’s face.

Fëanáro chuckled but didn’t move. Nolofinwë huddled closer and kissed his brother’s front. Like he so rarely did, Fëanáro nuzzled on the crook of Nolofinwë’s neck, allowing him to encircle his shoulder with one arm and pull the lithe, lean body against his. He felt, then, more than saw, the satisfied smile that spread on Fëanáro’s bruised-red lips against his skin. Their bodies were entwined, arms and legs thrown over the other.

Nolofinwë closed his eyes and let his mind drift as he was engulfed again by the same white blazing light of before. Immeasurable love flowed between them, a powerful emotion that went beyond any possible words. He had never felt anything purer – not even the Mingling of the Lights, or the snow that fell from Taniquetil – nor more beautiful. He tightened the embrace, never wishing to let go.

***

A cold breeze woke Nolofinwë up in the middle of the night. He jerked off a dream of wildlands – wilder than Oromë’s woods, darker and thicker – and hunt. He could smell the blood in his hands and the thrill in his heart. He opened his eyes and blinked, for the room burned low with a side-stick candle – Fëanáro must have lit it some time while he slept – and the fire was almost out. Close to the door, he distinguished a shadow moving toward the bed. It was the shadow of a man.

He started, sat up with a brusque movement, and realized Fëanáro was already up, standing beside the bed. He repeatedly blinked until his eyes could adjust to the gloom; Nolofinwë discerned, then, the silhouette wasn’t that of a normal person – in fact, it wasn’t a person at all, but someone much taller and broader, imposing as the Eldar couldn’t be – not even his brother, who now stood straight as a spear facing the stranger.

There was a glint of green eyes, deep as the forest itself, and the figure stepped into the light. Nolofinwë’s breath caught in his lungs as Oromë stared at them with eyes keen as a hawk’s. He and Fëanáro were both naked, for they didn’t find the need to cover their bodies - it was unlikely anyone would come uninvited. The silence stretched uncomfortably between the three and Nolofinwë could feel, more acutely than ever, the fire under his brother’s skin ready to lash out. The Vala didn’t move or flinch, as he no doubt felt Fëanáro’s blazing spirit gathering strength.

“I lament the intrusion,” Oromë finally said with a deep, rustling voice that reminded Nolofinwë of leaves scattered in the wind. “I didn’t know the hut would be occupied. There were no lights from the outside.”

Another long moment of silence, broken only by the wind and the crackling of wood. Oromë moved, and Nolofinwë’s muscles tensed. That was it, they were caught, and their romance would be exposed before the whole Tirion – hells, the entire land would know of this! A thousand thoughts raced in his mind as cold dread gripped its hand on his stomach and paralyzed him. What could they do against the knowing eyes of the Vala? Neither of them moved, and Nolofinwë felt his brother’s mind racing with the same questions and worries.

Surprisingly, however, the Vala moved without breaking eye contact, and sat on the edge of the bed, as if his old bones got suddenly tired – but that was impossible, wasn’t it? The Valar could change their form, they didn’t get tired or weary with physical form. Did they? Oromë’s pupils were a lighter green that gave him an otherworldly appearance. Those eyes assessed both brothers momentarily, one then the other. When the green gaze captured him, Nolofinwë felt he was being pulled in the Vala’s direction. It should have been frightening, but, somehow, he felt embraced. With the same intensity, he felt Oromë let him go and capture Fëanáro’s gaze instead.

The Vala lifted one hand, palm facing up – a sign that Nolofinwë vaguely identified as one of peace. For his shock, however, he saw his brother placing his hand on top of it. He wanted to scream and tell him to stop and be careful, but no words came out of his mouth.

Oromë and Fëanáro faced one another for what seemed like hours on end – but that was impossible, for dawn never came -, and Nolofinwë was even more baffled to see, inside those mossy depths, emotions he certainly had not expected. Despite Oromë’s wild aspect, fur in his shoulders and feathers growing in his elbows, his eyes held no accusing words. No, on the contrary, they were benevolent and kind – those of a father. Nolofinwë’s throat closed to see a vulnerability that was so… human.

As if he could hear the brother’s thoughts, Oromë lowered his eyes and smiled sadly. Nolofinwë let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. As for Fëanáro, he had gotten close to the Vala and now sat gracefully by his side, as if their nakedness meant nothing at all. The smile lingered on Oromë’s lips as light fingers trailed his brother’s cheek.

He heard Fëanáro’s voice in his head: _Why_?

“Thou remind’st me of someone,” the Vala whispered softly, answering the unspoken question.

He stood up then, less tall than Nolofinwë had thought at first, and certainly less imposing – as his figure had somehow diminished before them. He moved to the door silently.

“Fear not, Children. Thy secret is safe with me.” Nolofinwë frowned. “I have placed traps for a mile around this hut, so thou wilt be warned if someone undesirable approaches in the dead of night.”

“Like you just did,” Fëanáro enunciated slowly as if he had just found his lost voice, and the corner of his mouth tugged up in a half-smile.

Oromë laughed jovially like the merry chirping of birds. “Aye, like I just did. But I will do no more.” He turned to leave, then, and called above his shoulder: “Be at peace.”

Before he was gone, Fëanáro called him with the commanding tone that always melted his limbs to molten wax. “I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” Oromë gave him a tight smile, a human one, that disconcerted them both. “But thou must. Thou hast no other choice. I won’t, however, betray neither of thy trust, Sons of Finwë. I swear it for the love I bear the Eruhíni,” and Nolofinwë heard in his mind, as clearly as if Oromë was speaking: _and also for the love instilled in my heart by another, long ago_. And he knew Fëanáro had heard it also.

He blinked several times and realized Fëanáro’s voice was in his mind. _Do you trust him_? He asked.

 _It is as he said,_ Nolofinwë replied. _We don’t have a choice_. They shared one side-long glance that possibly lasted more than usual, and Oromë stepped forward again.

“Thou hast learned it!” he murmured breathlessly, drawing both their gazes upon him. “Ósanwë-kenta! Thou hast learned it! _How_?”

Nolofinwë stared at his brother, hoping that at least one of them could explain how they could suddenly interchange thought. But Fëanáro merely frowned and looked back at him, waiting for his insight – and, deep down, his chest swelled with pride.

“I felt something,” he said, at last, drawing both powerful gazes upon him. He retold the experience of seeing the explosion of golden and white light around them. He didn’t need to explain what they were doing when it happened, for Oromë’s face lit up in astonishment.

“Thou hast bonded, young Nolofinwë,” he said quietly, his face kind with understanding.

“What does that mean?” Fëanáro asked.

“I cannot tell thee all the depths that intertwine the Eldar’s fëas,” Oromë said quietly, eyes bright as two emeralds. “But there are those amongst thee who can.” He looked intently at Fëanáro, and Nolofinwë knew of whom he spoke. His brother nodded, and the Vala smiled at them. “Now, I take my leave, young ones. And remember: it is not only lore and craft that strengthens one’s mind.”

Within a blink and a slight displacement of wind, and Oromë was gone. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë stared thoughtfully at each other, both considering what had just happened and what they have learned.

“Do you think there are ways of strengthening our minds?” He asked at last.

“None that I know of,” Fëanáro whispered and walked around the bed to sit by his side. He raised a hand to tuck a strand of loose hair behind Nolofinwë’s ear.

“Did you know this was possible?” He asked, tugging Fëanáro’s hand and pulling him to lay by his side.

“The soul-bonding? Yes. I didn’t know how it happened, however. Had I known, we would have done it before.”

Nolofinwë’s eyes widened, and Fëanáro chuckled at his astonished expression. “Don’t look so surprised, brother. For what I hear, it takes two willing people to complete a bond,” he smirked irresistibly, and Nolofinwë laughed.

“What do you think we should do now?” They fell into each other’s embrace.

“Right now, absolutely nothing,” he heard Fëanáro’s smile. “But when we get back to Tirion, we should see Rúmil. He is the one who told me this was possible, as you might have guessed.”

“Yes,” Nolofinwë grumbled. “But you are right. For now, let’s do nothing.”

“Well…” Fëanáro said suggestively, running a hot hand on his thigh, and Nolofinwë threw back his head to laugh out loud.

“I should have gotten used to your insatiable hunger by now.”

“Mine? You are the one who drew me back to bed,” Fëanáro smiled over his mouth and darted his tongue quickly across Nolofinwë’s bottom lip.

“What if he comes back?” Nolofinwë said, suddenly alarmed, sitting up. “Fëanáro, what if this is a trap?”

His brother frowned, eyes locked on his and fingers lightly tracing the muscles on his back. Nolofinwë could feel his thoughts, doubting, searching for a flaw in Oromë’s words. But, as he had suspected, there seemed to be none.

“I don’t think it’s a trap,” Fëanáro replied after a pause.

He said that and nothing else. Arms encircled Nolofinwë closer, protectively, a hand buried deep in his hair – and, for now, he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes, sighing with contentment.


	27. Unraveling

“Atar? Are you feeling alright?”

Macalaurë’s voice chimed like a hundred bells, echoing inside his head from a place that was too far and yet, too close. His vision was blurred, and he knew he had sat in the same humped position for too long. He heard more voices, muffled like he was hearing them from underwater. Fëanáro didn’t understand what they said, but he could feel Nolofinwë by his side, the concern in his aura was more latent than the tone of his (nearly) indistinct voice. He also didn’t need to hear his sons’ voices to see their worries.

“… getting worse?”

“… go back to Tirion and…”

Arafinwë. They were discussing what to do with him, and here he was, sitting like a useless sack of grain. Three bodies pressed into him from all sides, and he recognized the scent of his little cubs, afraid to see their atar in such a vulnerable state. He patted lightly on the boys’ heads - one silver and two black blurs - and tried to stand up, but his dizzy head made his limbs wobble. Nolofinwë’s strong grip caught him before he made another scene and sat him down carefully. 

He tried to tell them all to back off and give him space, but all that he could utter were a few growls that caused his family more worry. Maitimo’s face danced before his eyes, and he traced his son’s handsome face – but his trembling fingers were even more worrisome. He could feel Nolofinwë’s heart thumping inside his head, their bloods pumping together like one, and that didn’t help either – his brother’s growing anxiety didn’t let him think straight.

Fëanáro closed his eyes shut and focused on the sharp pain that throbbed in his skull. Since they had left the hut the week before, the headaches had only increased as their mind-speaking become more fluent and sophisticated. It was true that his heart now felt like a whole again, like he hadn’t allowed it to be for so long, blaming himself for feeling the emptiness that Nolofinwë’s absence represented. He had always known he needed all the love – his sons’ and his brother’s. But the problem wasn’t his heart.

It was the exchange.

From the start, he had been flooded with the wave of emotions that flowed from Nolofinwë into him back and forth, feeding the undying bonfire that raged underneath his skin. A look at his brother’s beautiful features and Fëanáro knew he felt the same way. There was a permanent – silly, lovely – smile that never left Nolofinwë’s face. The communion of their souls was so deep that, in the beginning, it was impossible to know which thoughts were his and which were Nolofinwë’s. Both of them marveled at what this new… ability represented. That was until the connection became so strong that he sometimes felt sick with the pain.

It was also challenging to hide from their family this new thing that made them two halves of one whole. They were caught more than once finishing each other’s sentences and speaking the same thing at the same time. It was uncanny, although no one seemed to find it odd as it sounded to his own ears. More than that, it became more and more overwhelming to hear both his thoughts and his brother’s, and it hurt terribly since neither could control it well. It has taken Nolofinwë several days to finally master the ability to share only what he wanted. Still, Fëanáro was unable to do it. 

And that was something he couldn’t quite reconcile with. Wasn’t his mind the greatest one of all the Elves in Arda? Why, for Eru’s sake, was he incapable of mastering this? It was not that he doubted the capability of his beloved brother – he, of all people, knew how brilliant Nolofinwë was. Then, why couldn’t he do the same? Unless something was stopping him from controlling the ability. The first time this thought popped in Fëanáro’s mind, a cold shiver ran down his spine, but he couldn’t elaborate – it _hurt_ , damn it! Like someone was trying to split his head open with a blunt spoon. 

All he could think of was the pain: nothing else could penetrate the fog that veiled all other senses. He could feel that Nolofinwë tried to reach him through the fog, but it was useless; he was blind to it. He had retched a few times already and fought the dizziness and the pressure in his skull with greeted teeth. It was of no avail. He had tried his best to hide it from the boys, but nothing got past Nelyo’s extraordinary perception, and he constantly saw his eldest’s panicked eyes interpreting his elusiveness as another fight with Nolofinwë – up to a point where he had to explain it was nothing of the sort, that he and his brother were fine. 

Still, Fëanáro couldn’t explain the pain without explaining the bond, which he was hesitant of doing. It didn’t matter that he didn’t feel like Nerdanel’s husband anymore – under the eyes of the Valar and the Laws of the Eldar, he still was, and she still expected him to be. And however much he abhorred the thought of lying, Kurvo was still a baby! How could he ever say to his sons that he disregarded their own mother to the point he had taken a lover? Fëanáro couldn’t fathom the thought of his children siding with her if they ever came to that.

He grunted with the thought. It was too much for anyone to take, and he didn’t want to drop this on the boys’ shoulders – especially not Nelyo’s, as he knew his eldest would unconsciously do, probably even blaming himself along the way. Even if Nelyo knew the nature of their relationship, it was too much a burden for him to carry nonetheless. And so he kept quiet. Nolofinwë understood – of course he did, as he was reticent about mentioning it to his children as well. If he was honest with himself, Fëanáro knew any of it was fair to his wife, but, about that (and about her), he would think _later_.

He felt cold water running down his face. It alleviated the symptoms, and he breathed out slowly.

 _Fëanáro…_ whispered the wind.

A soft tongue ran across his lips, shyly. He gasped in surprise and, at the same time, whoever was trying to open his skull, was succeeding. There was a stab of pain so sharp he cried aloud and fell on his knees, holding his head in his hands, hating the fragility of his state. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. As powerfully as it had seized him, the pain drifted away, like a butterfly’s wing crushed to dust between his fingers. Fëanáro groaned with relief, and he felt strong hands steadying him, wiping the sweat from his front and a pair of impossible blue eyes searching his in worried panic. He blinked rapidly, still waiting for a keening throb to overtake his senses again - which never came.

“It’s gone,” he murmured and winced at the weakness in his voice. “Brother, it’s gone!” Fëanáro gripped Nolofinwë’s tunic and anchored himself, lifting his head and his body slowly.

“What do you mean, what is gone?” Nolofinwë whispered in his ear.

“The pain. I can’t feel it anymore.” _My mind is clearer now then it has been since we’ve left the hut_.

“Alright, alright, Fëanáro, don’t overexert yourself,” Nolofinwë wrapped arms around him with concern, but he was smiling, relieved. His soul reached out, enveloping Fëanáro in such blissful love that he sighed and leaned his head onto the broad shoulder, breathing in the scent of his brother-lover.

They stood like that for a while, until Fëanáro could recognize their surroundings. They were inside a cave, and there was a fire going.

“Where is everyone?” Fëanáro straightened his back.

“They’ve given us some space since you seemed to be in so much pain. The boys were starting to feel really anxious, so Arafinwë is keeping them outside.” Nolofinwë made a motion to stand up. “I should probably warn th-”

Fëanáro yanked his brother close from the collar of his tunic and kissed him briefly, but sweetly, before Nolofinwë withdrew with a start. _I missed you_ , he said into his brother’s mind and heard the rumble of his delightful laughter.

 _So did I, melmënya_ , came the soft reply, bathing him in warmness and comfort.

“Atar!” He heard Carnistir outside the cave. The boy came running and clashed against his chest, driving a puff of air from Fëanáro’s lungs.

“Easy now, Moryo, your father has just recovered himself,” Nolofinwë smiled kindly.

“Atar!” Maitimo entered next, kneeling in front of Fëanáro. His expression smoothed immediately when their eyes met, and he sighed with relief. “Tyelko said he heard voices. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, my love,” Fëanáro replied with a smile and a caress on his eldest’s cheek.

Soon, the whole family was cramped inside the cave, speaking loudly, and asking him a thousand questions. His sons clung to him protectively, and even though he felt immensely happy, he also needed time alone to think. Fëanáro hadn’t tried using more of mind-speaking with so many stimuli around them, but he and Nolofinwë had many things to discuss in private. Maybe if he was outside, it would be easier… So he excused himself and claimed he needed some air, and no one tried to stop him when he stepped outside the cave and into the mild night.

The breeze stirred his hair gently, and there was a sweet scent of wet turf, fresh leaves, and moss. Nolofinwë told him they were closer to the lake now, and the children were eager to be initiated in the “family tradition,” as their father had put it. He could feel Nolofinwë’s soul distinctively glowing inside him, the bond strong and bright. No more headaches, no more blurred vision. He wondered what in the seven hells had just happened. 

It wasn’t like he had gotten used to mind-speaking in a matter of seconds. No, that was… something else. The pain hadn’t disappeared, it had been withdrawn, like a thorn extricated from the skin. Whatever it could be, it was deeply unsettling. Fëanáro shivered and not from the cold – his skin never felt cold like everyone else.

 _Brother…_ he spoke into Nolofinwë. _Has something else happened that should be mentioned during these days?_

 _What do you mean? What are you thinking?_ Came the alarmed reply.

_That our bond, ósanwë learning, and whatever happened to me were not coincidences._

He heard Nolofinwë exhale wearily as if his brother was by his side. _I thought as much, too. Nothing strange happened while you were afflicted, but I don’t trust my senses, not after Oromë’s advice_.

_No, me neither. We should return to Tirion as soon as we can. Tomorrow, if it is possible._

_Not yet, Fëanáro, not if we don’t wish to raise any suspicion. We need to go to the lake, at least. The boys are counting on it, and Arafinwë might ask too many questions if we change plans so abruptly, especially when we are merely a few days_ _away. He is continually asking me about your feelings as if he knew something!_ He grumbled, and Fëanáro chuckled.

There was a pause, then Nolofinwë voice came again, more hesitantly. _Do you think he may know? Are we that obvious?_

_Nelyo knows, I’ve told him as much. And you’ve told me Findekáno suspects it at least, but I doubt either of them would mention it to Aro._

His brother was silent for a while, and Fëanáro continued, staring at the starlit sky. _But you’re right. Maybe we need to pay closer attention to the way we respond to one another while mind-speaking. What are you doing right now?_

 _I’m laying down, trying to put Irissë to sleep._ Fëanáro grinned widely with that mental image. _I’ve never seen a child so energetic after days of traveling like this little one_. _Turko has sensed it too, you know? He even took her to see the birds the other day._

_You trusted him to do it?_

_Why wouldn’t I? Turko was very attentive and careful with her, and I even think they will be good friends in the future. Besides, I feel like both our children and Aro’s were destined to be together. As were we._

Yes… Fëanáro breathed in deep, letting his love envelop his brother as he felt, in return, the warm embrace of Nolofinwë’s golden fëa. Then, he started. There was a ruffle of bushes a few yards from where he stood. Surely his mind was playing tricks at him? Had he just seen a fox take the shape of a squirrel? He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. No… it couldn’t have been. But there was a rustle nearby…

“Fëanáro?” A woman’s voice called out, as two figures emerged from the trees beneath the cave – one blond and, the other, dark-haired.

“Findis, Irimë! You have found us!”

“Your track is not exactly difficult to follow, you being so many,” Findis replied with a smile, stepping towards him.

“Besides,” Lalwën grinned, “you make so much noise that we could hear you two miles away from here.”

They came to a halt before Fëanáro and hesitated a little before exchanging shy embraces, on all parts. The sisters stepped inside the cave and were greeted with a shrieking welcome by some of the children – and to Fëanáro’s surprise, the first that ran into Findis’ arms was Kurvo. Nolofinwë stood up to kiss his sisters’ cheek with a smile that outshone even the stars in the sky outside.

“How was the journey to Ilmarin?” His brother asked in his deep tone.

“It was good.”

“It was a _bore_!”

Findis and Irimë spoke at the same time, then looked at each other, and Irimë laughed wholeheartedly.

“Don’t look at me like that, Fin! You know I’d rather be here, in the wilds and with our family, than listening to endless preaching of how we are supposed to be virtuous and not act like gruesome men,” Irimë scoffed.

“Well, I don’t think that’s what the preaching was all about, and you know perfectly well!” Findis reproached, and Irimë rolled her eyes. She took off her cloak with one hand and sat down with Curufinwë, still clinging in her arms.

“Yes, letting a man chose us for wife, breeding like rabbits and being confined at home while our husbands have all the fun,” Irimë stated, welcoming Turvo in her lap, with a kiss in his head, while she also sat down.

“It was an interesting lecture about the natures of men and women,” Findis turned now to Nolofinwë, “and how we should be working to make the most of our natural talents.”

“I wonder what do they know of our natures, being them neither men nor women,” Fëanáro went back into the cave, and his statement, though spoken softly, fell like lightning from the sky in their midst.

The color drained off Nolofinwë’s face, and Fëanáro could sense the fear in his brother’s heart. If what happened to him was indeed a warning – or spying – of some sort, he should indeed be more careful with what he said. But if that was what had really happened… his patience was reaching its limits. Besides, he suddenly found an unexpected ally in one of his half-sisters, who was so evidently annoyed with the injustice of their customs.

 _Stop. Fëanáro, stop!_ The request rang in his mind as Fëanáro opened his mouth to say something.

“We shouldn’t be saying these things in front of the children,” Findis murmured before he could continue, eyeing from one brother to the other.

“Anyway, Nolvo,” Irimë changed subjects, afraid that another quarrel might spring between the brothers, but missing the true nature of the discussion. “Aren’t you going to ask us about your wife and why she didn’t come?”

From white, Nolofinwë’s face turned pink, and Fëanáro felt a hand squeezing his heart so tight his own face might have paled. What a sight they both made!

“Oh… well, I know she doesn’t like the wilds and prefers the preaching, like you, Fin,” he pointed out calmly. “How is she?”

“She might have made an exception to be with the father of her children,” Irimë smirked at him. “But no, she thought it was wiser to go home and start preparing the layette for her new boy.”

Nolofinwë’s eyes widened. Fëanáro felt too many conflicting feelings (most of them his own), but his brother’s sudden jolt of happiness was palpable.

“Did you hear it, Turvo?” Findis whispered and bent over her knees, arm stretched, to poke her nephew on the ribs and make him giggle. “You are going to have a little brother!”

The girls felicitated him, but Nolofinwë’s eyes were fixed nowhere in particular as his neck gained a bright reddish color to match his blushed cheeks. For a moment, Fëanáro wished they were alone so he could embrace his brother and kiss the most loving smile that birthed in his face. Their eyes met, and Fëanáro couldn’t be angry with him.

“This is great news!” Arafinwë clasped his shoulder and laughed breathlessly. “Poor Irissë will have little peace in her life with three boys around her!” 

“She will have your Artanis to play with, brother,” he smiled sweetly and looked at Fëanáro, waiting. 

“Congratulations, brother,” he said truthfully, making Nolofinwë chuckle and look at his own hands, both pleased and embarrassed. 

Findekáno, whose hair was being brushed by Maitimo, stood up abruptly and hugged his father from behind, flinging skinny arms around his neck. Nolofinwë chuckled and kissed his eldest hands, no doubt feeding his eldest with the joy of being a father again. Yes, no matter what, it was great news, indeed!

Having the sisters joined them in their merry band of mischief, Fëanáro avoided speaking to Nolofinwë mind to mind, lest they gave it away to other cunning adults. He couldn’t help laughing at this thought, how his brother and he were acting as children keeping a secret. With the girls along, there was no excuse not to finish what they started. The children were eager to reach the lake, and, when they finally did, none of them were in a rush to return home. 

When asked about his wife’s condition and if he missed her, Arafinwë laughed merrily and claimed they needed their time apart once in a while, even if they loved each other very much.

“Amil gets very moody when she is pregnant, so it’s better if we give her space,” serene Findaráto proclaimed to his stunned aunts and uncles, who laughed at their nephew’s wisdom at such a tender age – he was only a little younger than Findekáno.

Fëanáro’s sons got along so well with his half-brothers and sisters – not to speak with their cousins – he wondered how much the boys would miss them when they returned to Formenos. The children had already started planning Artaresto’s begetting day and the party they would throw their little cousin. Amidst their joy, Fëanáro had decided not to be bothered by the anxious warning, nagging on the back of his head. He chose to feed on Nolofinwë’s intoxicating happiness – and how wonderful was the sight of his stern little brother, bare torso glistening under the golden light, playfully tossing the children in the water like they were dead trunks – but shrieked like little beasts – laughing that beautiful way of his? It was difficult to take his eyes off him, and most of the time, Fëanáro would just sit nearby, eyes closed, listening to the talk around him, letting Nolofinwë’s fëa flood his senses.

When he chose to partake in their plays, however, Fëanáro would instigate the children to do their best in whatever activity they chose.

“See those targets?” He said one day to the eager silver and blue eyes fastened on him, pointing at the trees that went up a trail in a sort of circuit. “You must run and shoot as many as you can, as fast as you can, turn around and come back. Watch,” and as he said it, he jumped ahead like a deer. His bow sang, one arrow after the other, with such dexterity and uncanny skill, all the camp was agape.

“That’s impossible!” Angaráto cried when he returned with not a single drop of sweat on his brow.

“Nothing still undone is impossible until it’s done,”* he answered simply, but not unkindly.

“But we’re still children!” Ambaráto joined his brother. “We can never be as good as you!”

“You will never know until you try. Go on!” He encouraged them.

The children were a little hesitant. They all had an exquisitely crafted bow fit for their size - Fëanáro had personally made for each one of them before they’d set off.

“Turko, why don’t you show your cousins, hm?”

His third born had been impatiently waiting for the youngest to begin – for the eldest would be the last – and beamed him a precious smile before he too leaped on the trail, shooting bullseye in almost every target. The boy returned with a sulk for having tripped and missed three, but his cousins praised him wide-eyed nonetheless. They soon followed his Little Hunter, and Ambaráto and Findekáno proved to be exceptionally skilled and got almost as many targets as Turko. Given that his son practiced this a lot at home, it was certainly a feat!

“Very good, boys!” He smiled at them once they had all attempted, touching Ambaráto’s and Findekáno’s shoulders. “You did very well,” he told them specifically.

The boys were ecstatic for the rest of the journey, and the shooting practice was all they could talk about for an entire day. The youngest, however, were a little disappointed. To those, he said: 

“Don’t stop training until you get better. If you only complain you lack skill, you’ll never be able to outdo yourselves. Put the energy of complaining into practicing and achieving.”

At this point, Fëanáro caught Nolofinwë’s eyes, and there was such hunger inside them that it almost made him stagger. He knew his brother didn’t dare say anything, not even through mind-speak, but he really didn’t have to. Those blue diamond eyes were glazed over with insatiable desire, and it took all his will not to drag him into a bush far from the family’s ears and ravish him like his eyes pleaded.

“You are too harsh on them, Fëanáro,” Findis spoke from behind him.

“Nonsense! Have you seen the pride in their eyes when they accomplish something they deemed it was beyond their abilities? Besides, this is how I’ve learned when I was a child. I don’t see why it should be different for them.”

“Oh, brother!” Irimë scoffed.

“He really is something, isn’t he?” Nolofinwë spoke earnestly, a sly smile playing on his lips.

Fëanáro tilted his head and waited for them to explain themselves. “What?” He asked at last.

“Are you seriously comparing _them_ to _you_? That’s hardly fair!” Irimë explained, laughing.

“You indeed set too high expectations,” Arafinwë smiled softly. “But, I understand your wish to see them thrive.”

“Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t expect that. Nolofinwë is almost as good as I am in hunting or wrestling!”

They all stopped, exchanging brief glances with one another.

Nolofinwë snorted first, and they all burst into a peal of laughter that could be heard from many miles.

It was with a start that Fëanáro realized he had been included in his brother’s bantering, at long last. The feeling was… good. Yes, very, very good. In fact, he felt so happy he completely forgot about the previous days’ worries. Once the feeling had settled in, however, that same something on the back of his mind came back with full force, nagging on and poking insistently. Fëanáro was taken away from the momentary joy and brought back to reality. He slanted a sidelong glance to his brother and saw that Nolofinwë watched him closely, a frown in his brows. His brother had sensed it, as well. 

It was time to return home and search for Rúmil.

***

When they finally made it back to Tirion, their spirits were high. The children had been initialized in the lake, and they all felt like they could go back to soft, warm beds and to have food under a roof. The suggestion was well-received by all, except the sisters, who had missed part of the fun and wished to stay longer. Alas, not even Arafinwë could count on his wife’s wishes to see him gone from the palace for so long. They all needed to return, and the end of the trip felt like the end of an Age spent inside a little bubble of their own. 

The cousins were closer than ever and parted with hugs and promises to see each other soon – there were even some tears between Findaráto and Turukáno who, in the last days of the trip, had bonded unexpectedly and hated to be separated when they had at last, as they said, “found one another.” The adults smiled, but there was nothing to be done. Fëanáro’s children, as Nolofinwë’s, were sad to see their cousins take the road to Alqualönde. When they returned to the palace, Fëanáro announced to his sons they needed to prepare for leaving as soon as he got back from Rúmil’s house.

Nolofinwë wasn’t happy with this news, either. His brother wanted to stay in the palace with Anairë until she gave birth, and Fëanáro had left too many unfinished projects, too many things unsolved in his workshop. Some of those projects were already coming back to snatch hours of his sleep, and in the last few days of the journey, he felt that anxiety to be back at his forge and resume the experiment he had begun before they came – who would’ve thought they would be gone for so long! 

Nerdanel would undoubtedly throw a fit because of their long absence, and he was already bracing himself for a fight upon his return. It was the idea of parting with Nolofinwë that was too terrible to think of, and they hadn’t discussed what (or how) they were going to do. But first, they needed to see Rúmil, and many things depended on what they would unearth from their old tutor.

The children were left with Finwë and Indis, who were overjoyed to have their grandchildren for longer than they, and everyone, had expected. Fëanáro and Nolofinwë rode swiftly to Rúmil’s house, and they were both quiet on the path that took them from the palace to the lambengolmor’s porch. Both sensed, in each other, the weight of what had happened, suddenly aware that many eyes turned to watch them as they passed side by side, knees almost touching. The princes of the Noldor were reunited, and the sight they made, regal as no kings were or ever again will be, astonished the people of Tirion.

When finally they arrived in Rúmil’s house, they found him on the veranda sitting behind a desk filled with books, parchments, inkpots, and broken quills. When the lambengolmor saw who was approaching, he widened his eyes and sprung up a little clumsily, banging his hip on the table and letting a big blot of ink fall from his quill on the middle of the paper he was writing in. He looked dismayed at the parchment for a moment, flipped the quill on the table carelessly, and came striding to them with open arms, a broad smile and fingers covered in black ink.

“My Princes! What brings you here today? I thought you were in the wilds with your family?” He spurted out all at once.

“Yes, we have returned this morning,” Fëanáro grinned and embraced his friend. 

By his side, he could see Nolofinwë’s flared, annoyed nostrils – but more than that, he sensed his brother’s jealousy, which made his grin widen. Rúmil let go of the embrace a little reluctantly and turned to his brother instead. Nolofinwë quickly put his mask back on and smiled to their old master as he would to his lords, and Fëanáro thought his brother ought to leave that attitude behind if they expected Rúmil to support their cause as he hoped he would - as he had always done. They were cordial enough, however, and soon the tutor was talking excitedly about the news of Nolofinwë’s new child.

“Come now, let us go inside!” He motioned his arm to the door.

“What is the meaning of this, Rúmil?” Fëanáro chuckled as they passed by the desk. “You, working outside your study? I can only suppose you have blown it up to the air with some experiment!” He teased.

“I would wager he would be sitting in the embers while the whole pace crumbled around him,” Nolofinwë smiled cheekily, and Rúmil threw back his head to laugh.

“My study is just where it was last time both of you were here,” he started saying as he walked inside. “But the weather was so nice, and I had spent so many days working inside, that I figured I could give myself this small luxury.”

Now that Fëanáro watched him closely, the old master looked rather pale and disheveled, as if he had spent indeed many nights deprived of sleep.

“What have you been working on lately?” Nolofinwë asked, and Fëanáro couldn’t hide his satisfied smile at the attempt his brother was making to at least sound civil. He could definitely have kissed him right there.

“Oh, the scholars in this island are a whole bunch of deranged fools!” The lambengolmor stated with heat, and Fëanáro chuckled. “We have spent too long discussing the nature of teaching and how we could better use our skills to instruct our pupils, but some of them are too conservative to accept even the minor changes, especially when it comes to new and young scholars who bring modern ideas that would make even their lives better!”

Fëanáro laughed. He knew only too well how hard it was to be accepted amongst those scholars - he would never forget how reluctant they were to use the Tengwar, then the lamps, then the magnets - well, anything that caused even the slightest disruption. They reached Rúmil’s study, and the tutor closed the door behind them, motioning them to the exact same chairs they used to sit when they were children.

“But, of course, when a Prince of the Noldor demonstrates the same wishes, as your Nelyafinwë has done, they are all too eager to bow their heads to the ground and say _yes, please_.” Rúmil sighed while pouring them the wine on the cabinet and finishing the remnants of that bottle.

Nolofinwë was looking positively embarrassed, as Fëanáro expected him to be. He and Rúmil spoke freely of all that went wrong on the island, and not even his father’s rule escaped their careful and witty criticism. He could see his brother’s mind reasoning in that way that always made his blood boil, that concentrated frown that showed all the passion tingling underneath his tongue.

“I never knew there were such discussions among the scholars,” Nolofinwë said in a non-accusatory tone.

“You wouldn’t, my prince since I never judged these affairs important enough to reach your father’s ears.”

“My father is not here now. I am.” Nolofinwë said calmly but with an imposing presence and a soft smile that made Rúmil’s brows fly to the line of his hair. _Where was the little boy always trailing after his big brother?_ He might have been thinking. “I deem it of great importance, and I would hear more of it if you will, Rúmil,” he finished – and Fëanáro’s cock immediately stirred.

It was not just his deep voice or the way he said those words – not even the surprise they usually provoked in others – but how Nolofinwë showed every bit of the king he was, in every fiber of his being. More, it was so much more. Fëanáro wanted to scream with pride, get down on his knees and suck him until he could hear moans and pleas escaping his brother’s lungs in that voice, with that same passion and determinism. His brother was brilliant. Rúmil could never say no to that. It was not a request to begin with, but a demand proclaimed with the placidity Nolofinwë had no doubt learned from Finwë and perfected. There was a mask, but a kind one, that invited people to _want_ him to be a part of their projects. No wonder his brother was so popular in Tirion.

“Well, of course!” Rúmil said excitedly, opening his arms and staring at both of them, who shared a quick glance. “But I suspect you didn’t come here to talk about my fellow scholars, have you?” He threw them a sly smile.

“Indeed, we haven’t. We came to talk,” was all Fëanáro replied, hoping the lambengolmor would need no further hints to understand the meaning behind his words.

Rúmil was silent for a moment and stared at Fëanáro intently, and then at Nolofinwë as if assessing the younger brother’s knowledge of matters. “Very well,” he answered at last. “We shall try, although you know how this works.”

Fëanáro nodded and gave him a tight smile in return. “There are many things we need to understand, and you are the only one who can help us,” he said, noticing as Rúmil’s breast rose and held as if those words meant more to him then they should. The lambengolmor was silent and waited for them to continue.

Fëanáro reclined back on the chair and touched his lips. There were many things they needed to speak of, and he repassed them mentally to make sure he wouldn’t leave anything out. Then, he started recounting their experience as it was since the day of the reconciliation – and Fëanáro left nothing unsaid. Rúmil had been the only one who knew about his deviant desires and his even more reproachable love for his own half-sibling, but still, Fëanáro could see his master’s unease. By his side, Nolofinwë twitched uncomfortably on the chair, eyes fixed on him.

He spoke of their suspicions that both had been blinded to the other’s torment, and somehow forced to look aside as the other walked away. As he spoke on, he noticed Rúmil’s eyes fell from his face to his clasped hands on top of the table. He knew the master was listening carefully, but, for the first time, Fëanáro recognized signals he had never before as the tutor avoided his gaze, and his lips fell in an upside-down smile. The notion of it shocked him. Then, only then, he understood what he might have meant in his closest friend’s life all this time, and his speech faltered. 

He didn’t know much of severed bonds, for the master never entered in many details. Perhaps he had thought, somehow, Fëanáro could have mended his wounds? If it was so... Rúmil had always lived with false hopes, hopes _he_ had fed! But no, it could not be! He knew, Rúmil _knew_ how he felt for Nolofinwë from the start! Didn’t he? Fëanáro caught his breath but, before he could say anything else, Nolofinwë took his hand and squeezed it, comforting but also warning him. 

There was but a nudge on his mind that suggested maybe he should skip the sordid details and go straight to the point where they had learned ósanwë. He stared inside Nolofinwë’s impossible, beautiful blue depths and loved him so profoundly that his heart slammed hard on his throat. He pressed his lips together and exhaled noisily. His brother was right. Perhaps it would be too much for Rúmil to know the details of the bond.

“Rúmil…” he began softly again, hand still tight in Nolofinwë’s, “We can do mind-speak.”

The lambengolmor’s head snapped up straight into his eyes.

“You what?”

“We have learned _ósanwë,_ ” he repeated.

“How…” Rúmil shook his silver head, eyes wide and unfocused, unable to grasp the full meaning of those words. “That… that is not possible! Unless you…” he staggered, and his eyes went back up again into Fëanáro’s face, searching the signs until his eyes found their joined hands. His jaw dropped, and he sank on his chair, a trembling hand rising to rub his forehead. “That’s not possible,” he muttered to himself.

Nolofinwë stood up and went to the master’s side cabinet, where he knew there would be another bottle of wine; he uncorked it and refilled their goblets. He offered it to Rúmil, and the master looked at his face but couldn’t form words to thank him properly. They drank in silence for a long while, and Fëanáro couldn’t help feeling that he had brought misery to his friend’s life. He bit his lower lip and struggled to swallow the dark-red and robust wine.

“Rúmil, I…” he began, and the scholar looked at him with an even wilder face than before. “I am sorry,” he said in the kindest tone he could find in his self, reaching out a hand on top of the desk.

The master, however, didn’t ask why he was sorry but merely gave him a sad smile. “It is of no importance, child,” Rúmil patted his hand and squeezed it gently, but Fëanáro could see in the lines under his eyes that Rúmil was not only thinking of their past relationship but farther on the past, to his soulmate.

“I knew you two were fated to each other that day I saw you in the arena when you say you have reconciled?” He confirmed, and both nodded at once. “Yes, I thought so, too. Your fëas were shining too brightly and too close to your hröas. It was impossible not to notice – if one only looked closely enough,” he kept smiling.

A breath of relief ran through Fëanáro, and he and Nolofinwë chuckled, words suddenly lost to the potency of each other’s gaze. It was impossible for Fëanáro to describe what they had always meant to one another - and from that day of the reconciliation onward even more so. Nolofinwë was imprinted at the core of his soul, and nothing would ever be able to wipe him away.

“What happened between you,” Rúmil brought them back from their trance, “is unprecedented, not to say impossible! You should not have learned ósanwë! How on Arda have you done it?” He looked from one to the other, letting astonishment wash over his senses once more.

“We have bonded,” Fëanáro said quietly.

“Are you sure of it? Absolutely sure?” Rúmil leaned forward and asked earnestly.

“Positive,” Fëanáro answered as if it was a test. He began to narrate the experience he had, and the things he’d seen – which coincided with Nolofinwë’s experience when Rúmil’s questionings turned to him.

“… and we were… you know…” Nolofinwë finished, gesturing uncomfortably with his hand.

“Yes, having sex, I know,” Rúmil said plainly and made his brother blush so much it would be endearing if the matter wasn’t so serious. “That’s the only way you could have bonded.”

“And because it takes two willing people, we were never able to do it with our wives,” Nolofinwë stated, looking between Rúmil and Fëanáro.

“That’s right. Now, what else can you tell me?” He urged them.

“As if my heart was being pulled inside his body,” Nolofinwë blushed again, clearly uncomfortable to be speaking of such intimacies with someone like Rúmil – a stranger for him, for all that mattered.

“But more than that, Rúmil, I _know_. Our connection has always been strong, but after that night, everything changed. I feel him all the time as if our hearts pulsed as one. As if our Song has been intertwined,” Fëanáro said, and Nolofinwë looked at him intently and nodded once, encouraging him. “I have also had terrible headaches for many days afterward, and I feared...” he trailed off.

“Headaches? What type of headaches?” Rúmil sat up straight.

“The suspicious type,” answered Fëanáro bitterly, “that come and go as they please. It started gradually but ended abruptly. And it hurt like hell!”

Rúmil pursed his lips and covered his mouth, deep in thought. “It could be because you have made the bond too tight around your souls. That would explain the discomfort and-”

“I didn’t feel anything,” Nolofinwë interrupted. “I was obviously overwhelmed at first, but I felt no pain.”

The loremaster frowned and darted his eyes from one to the other. “It is suspicious indeed, but there’s not much we can do, except wait and observe. In any case, the tightest the soulbond, the strongest you can sense each other’s emotions and thoughts.”

Fëanáro nodded and looked at Nolofinwë, who returned the gaze thoughtfully.

“Was there something else?” Rúmil tilted his head.

“I...” Nolofinwë began and licked his lips. “I have been... interfered with.”

Rúmils eyes flew wide. “Tell me everything!” He said breathlessly.

The moment he said those words, a heavy silence fell on the room as its three inhabitants perceived the gravity of what was being said. They widened their eyes and held their breaths, and Fëanáro could feel Nolofinwë’s heart pounding in the same panicked rhythm as his. They waited until, at last, Rúmil exhaled shakily and licked his lips.

“Nothing?” Fëanáro murmured under his breath.

“Not even a whisper,” the master whispered himself. 

His brother retold, then, the unpleasant experience he had of having said things he never meant. Rúmil fell into a grim, speechless mood, a frown carved between his brows. The loremaster’s eyes were unfocused for so long that Fëanáro fretted they had been forcefully interrupted. At last, however, Rúmil stirred from his deep musing.

“Unfortunately, my princes, there is not much we can do but beware,” he whispered. “I thank you for sharing it with me, but you both know my position is weak.” And by ’position,’ Fëanáro knew he meant mind.

“So you suggest we do nothing?” Nolofinwë cried exasperated.

“For now, yes. Observe. Guard yourselves and your thoughts. You will need to find balance in that, as well as in everything else,” Rúmil advised.

“What makes you think that we will not be hindered?” Nolofinwë asked, running a hand on his hair.

“We can never know that, but we must try. We have been fortunate so far, but perhaps this is exactly the game we are playing now,” he said in a low voice, pressing his index finger on the table. 

“What do you suggest?” Fëanáro asked.

“You need to strengthen your minds, and I shall help you do that,” the loremaster finished triumphantly.

At once, the two brothers exchanged a knowing look. That was the same warning they had received from Oromë. With his peripheral vision, Fëanáro saw the tutor frowning.

“We appreciated it immensely, my friend,” he turned to face the master once more. “But there is one more thing,” he smiled wearily.

“Oromë knows,” Nolofinwë completed. Rúmil’s mouth fell open in renewed awe. “He walked into us during the night, saw us mind-speaking, and instantly knew we had bonded,” Nolofinwë said quietly. 

“He said our secret would be safe with him, and he even spoke into our minds and suggested-”

Rúmil raised a hand and stopped Fëanáro in mid-speech. “I don’t need to know!” He clipped. “I shouldn’t. Keep his secret.” 

Fëanáro frowned, for the request was odd, but he didn’t question the old tutor. 

“Well…,” Rúmil sat back again with a puff of air, pushing his hair back with both hands. “If I am honest, I don’t know what is most astonishing: the fact that somehow you have managed to learn ósanwë or the fact that the Lord of the Wood knows it and told you he would protect you…”

“Can we trust him?” Nolofinwë voiced the doubts that had never left him since that night, and Rúmil was quiet for a while, pondering his thoughts.

“I think,” he began after the pause, “that Oromë wouldn’t offer you his protection only to betray you. Whatever they may be, they have never been intentionally malicious.” He paused, eyes focused on one particular spot of the table until he shook himself out of his reverie. “Well, now. The news you have brought me is colossal, indeed. Not only have you swindled the Laws, been discovered and protected by a Power, but you also have done the one thing they claimed the Children of Eru could never have learned by themselves.”

Another silence rippled through the chamber in waves of incredulity. Fëanáro’s mind reeled. He closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what he had just heard, and, when he opened them to Nolofinwë, his brother had a hand over his mouth and unfocused, disbelieving expression. Rúmil let the information sink in before he continued. Fëanáro stared at him, and his shocked state must have been enough for the lambengolmor to speak.

“When we first arrived in Valinor, there were many things the Quendi didn’t know, many things we had yet to learn. One of them was ósanwë. That, they had said, was a gift only the Ainur possessed, one that could not be transmitted from father to son but had to be taught, like spoken language itself. And they did teach those among us who were eager to learn – you will not be surprised to know that the three leaders of the clans were the first students, among some other few who were already taken by lore in Cuiviénen.”

“You were one of them,” Fëanáro stated.

“As was your father,” Rúmil nodded.

“Father! He knows it?” Nolofinwë interrupted him as if suddenly aware of the conversation.

“Of course! We have often spoken to one another through thought alone,” the master said sadly, knowing the effect this would have on the princes.

“Then why hadn’t he say anything? Why hadn’t he taught us?” his brother cried louder.

“For the same reason I have not taught you, my prince,” Rúmil said, and Fëanáro cocked his head, intrigued. “It makes you vulnerable.”

“Of course,” Fëanáro said thoughtfully. “The more open one’s mind is to ósanwë, the more vulnerable it gets for people to enter it unbridled – and unwelcomed,” he finished. 

Rúmil nodded proudly at Fëanáro’s conclusions. “It took the stronger amongst us many, many days to finally conquer how to properly do direct thought-transmission without harming someone else’s mind and, also, fencing oneself against the others.”

“And how do we know father hasn’t suffered interference?” Nolofinwë asked, frowning.

“We don’t,” Rúmil said flatly. “Alas, there is no way of knowing, except asking him directly. And I am afraid your father is not one who looks kindly upon the past, not even one so recent.” The lambengolmor paused again. “His heart still grieves for all those he has lost,” he finished softly, not trying to avoid Fëanáro’s gaze.

Fëanáro lowered his eyes and breathed out slowly. Yes, it hurt. It still hurt, and it would always. His mother had a place in his heart no one, not even his beloved brother, could replace. It was the place she had branded with her brief presence, and that shaped his life ever since she decided to go to Lórien, never to return. Yet, Fëanáro could never blame his poor mother – no, it was _his_ fault that she lacked the will to keep living. The fire that raged inside of him had drained her of life, and Fëanáro could never blame her for it. He felt a warm hand run up and down his arm, comforting him. When he blinked, two heavy droplets fell on the back of his hand.

Nolofinwë welcomed his pain with his soul, and Fëanáro plunged. He closed his eyes, enraptured, and let himself get lost in the sensation of being loved, embraced, and cared for. He didn’t know how long had passed before Nolofinwë gently pushed him back. All heaviness was gone from his heart. Fëanáro looked about himself and saw Rúmil watching them with tears in his eyes, a sad, broken smile on his lips. Fëanáro sighed and lowered his head again.

“Your father,” Rúmil began inaudibly, almost to himself, “is one of the most stubborn men I have ever known,” the smile lingering on the corner of his mouth. “Finwë always claimed that the Valar had brought us here for our safety, and we must place our trust in them for this was - and is - the Blessed Realm. He never told me anything about any interference, and so I choose to believe he has never suffered any. Your father trusts them, and so I think they also trust him.”

Fëanáro’s heart stopped. Wasn’t it too perfect a plan that Finwë would choose to forsake his life in Cuiviénen and all the people he had left behind for the lie and the cage that were Valinor? His father hated talking about Endor, was a fierce supporter of the Laws, and was so mellow about this whole affair that it seemed, now, even ridiculous in his eyes. How had he never seen this before? 

“Have you ever considered that my father trusts them so blindly because he has been so tempered with he can’t even tell right from wrong anymore?” He exclaimed, alarmed, and Nolofinwë gasped by his side.

Rúmil shook his head in denial. “Your father is not weak of mind, Fëanáro. He was one of the strongest! No, I don’t think that’s possible.”

“But what if it is?” Nolofinwë asked, distress shattering his carefully constructed mask. “Rúmil, what if our father is but a puppet in their hands?”

“No, stop!” The lambengolmor yelled, and they were taken aback. “I _will not_ believe that!” He answered passionately. “I cannot!”

They fell silent for a long moment until Rúmil spoke again. “I love your father as my own blood brother, and if I let my thoughts go down that path, I cannot...” He hesitated, covering his mouth with his hand. 

“Let’s not speak of it,” Nolofinwë suggested, and Rúmil nodded in visible relief. “We must strengthen our minds, and we must learn fast.”

Rúmil stared a little longer to Nolofinwë than he usually did as if he was seeing his brother for the first time under a new light - which light could that be, Fëanáro didn’t know, and he dared not pry on the old master’s mind. 

“Yes,” he spoke quietly, almost to himself, then repeated more firmly. “Yes. Let us begin, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this way of thinking was taken from Dawn Felagund's exquisite [Another Man's Cage](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/archive/home/reviews.php?type=ST&item=1378).
> 
> melmënya (Q): my love 
> 
> **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin  
> Findekáno (Finno) - Fingon  
> Turukáno (Turvo) - Turgon  
> Irissë - Aredhel


	28. Familial nearness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been nearly a month since the last update, and I apologize for it - but the semester is finally over! \o/
> 
> Let's have some family fluff to celebrate!

The first time that Nolofinwë had been to Formenos, he was deeply impressed. It had been merely a week after they had returned from their trip in Oromë’s woods, but, as Fëanáro had put it, it was belated. His brother’s house stood out on a grassy hill, surrounded by forests and flowered fields. The building was the epitome of Noldorin construction: elegant forms carved meticulously and with exquisite craft allied with practicality. It was erected in such a way that adjourning rooms could be added if necessity called, as it had. Its walls were adorned with colorful and wonderful tapestries that had been woven by Míriel and only increased its coziness.

The house seemed to have as many chambers as the palace, including a music room, a playroom for the toddlers, and a magnificent library – not surprisingly the biggest, surpassing even the public library in Tirion. When Nolofinwë first saw it, his jaw had dropped to the floor. He had laughed, then, for it was a matter of pride that his children lacked no resources to excel in any and every field they chose. 

Perhaps the thing that amazed Nolofinwë the most was the contrast between his clean, peaceful house in the palace and this messy, crammed one, that raged with constant cacophony at all waking hours. He wondered if it was due to the amount of masculine testosterone, but one afternoon spent in his brother’s dwellings had taught him that it was Fëanáro’s lack of the stiff rigidness, that oozed out of the palatial life, which made Formenos so chaotically inviting – and delightfully alive!

The vast garden on the backyard was his favorite part of the site, and not because of the many striking life-like statues that graced it, or the mixed scents of lavender, rosemary, and peppermint, but because it was quiet enough for those who sought solitude from the constant yelling and calling and crying. It was possible to hear the birds and little animals that roamed in the woods farther ahead, and there it was frequent to meet Nelyafinwë reading under a tree or with his feet dangling inside the fountain.

At the left of the main house, Fëanáro’s forge was set alongside several smaller cabins belonging to his smiths and apprentices – his faithful and ever-growing household. The first time he had been there, Nolofinwë received awed looks from men and women who never had a chance to see the High Prince this close, if ever, much less in the company of their master – and engaged in such animated talk!

Fëanáro’s voice boomed above the sound of clanging and fire roaring in the ovens, a tremor hiding the thrill of decades of longing and yearning and waiting for that day. His brother’s eyes never left Nolofinwë’s, and his hands moved as fast as his tongue; he pointed to this and that, lifted a piece of unfinished work and brought it to his eyesight for a close analysis – some received praise and others were told to be melted and started from scratch, even if to Nolofinwë’s eyes they seemed perfect. He kept talking and talking, and Nolofinwë’s mind raced to follow it, and occasionally Fëanáro rested a hand on his arm or shoulder, bringing their bodies dangerously close. 

Nolofinwë would never forget that first day, when all he could think of was how stunning Fëanáro looked, disheveled and sweaty. It was disrespectful, not to mention nigh impossible, to lose track of his brother’s engaging speech – but the mere thought of bending his naked body over that bench or on the cold anvil was so utterly, deliciously wrong, enough to make him snort and harden under his breeches. Fëanáro was explaining the complex differences in the process of cold and hot forging and stopped talking abruptly. He stared at Nolofinwë, head cocked, as the lewd images escaped his recently acquired barrier, and his brother was able to see a glimpse of where his mind really was. 

It hadn’t taken them a full minute to reach his workshop and take advantage of the outside’s metallic cacophony to cover their cries of passion.

That was but the first time, and Nolofinwë had returned every spring for the past five years. As he made his way to the forges by himself now, with no one to accompany or announce him – and having left Findekáno on the doorstep with his elder cousin and tutor – Nolofinwë couldn’t help the exhilaration that preceded him for the always too short month he spent in his brother’s house. And it was, to his own surprise, not only the prospect of seeing Fëanáro after six excruciating months but also a genuine interest in the evolution of his brilliant experiments and projects. It was something that reminded him so much of his precious childhood, tinged with the nostalgia of their innocence, enhanced by the lush life that blossomed all around him.

He crossed the dry heat answering with small smiles and nods to those who looked at him in recognition. Those Noldor from the North were cold and strange, too focused in their own works and worlds, and they spared Nolofinwë but a glance before returning to their anvils. Or perhaps it was the hard hand of Fëanáro that kept them afraid of his truthful – and many times insensitive – reproaches and eager for his rare, but equally genuine, praise. 

“Greetings, my lord!” An older elf called when he crossed the forges to his brother’s workshop.

“A fair morning, Waimano!” He answered, smiling.

The other and his son, Lindwë, were the only ones of the household who always greeted him personally and made conversation – perhaps to gain even more favor from their master since the gesture was never left unnoticed by either brother.

“Is he inside?”

“Been there for three days now,” the elder answered with a grimace, shaking his head. “I don’t understand how he does it without food or rest, but perhaps my mind was not made to comprehend that of a genius’.” His eyes widened in irrepressible and constant awe.

Before he answered, Nolofinwë chuckled. “Well, I’ll see if I can wrench him out for a moment or two.”

“It will be a feat indeed if you do so, my lord,” Waimano shook his head again and, without further word, returned his eyes to the piece of delicate jewelry he held in his hands.

Nolofinwë didn’t even bother knocking on the door – the noise in the forges was always louder, and if the mood had gotten him, his brother wouldn’t listen to it anyway. As he stepped inside the workshop and closed the door behind him, Nolofinwë’s heart leaped in his chest. Seated and hunched over dozens of parchment sheets, Fëanáro worked in deep concentration with charcoal, making fluid movements with his wrists. 

Getting closer silently, he saw that the parchments were covered with either beautiful, detailed sketches or complex mathematical equations for what was, undoubtedly, his newest project; he also spotted a few other bits of used charcoal over the desk, wax, quills, inkpots, dirty brushes and cloths, and utilized glasses of water for painting. Despite the sun and warmth outside, the drapes of the window behind him were shut, likely forgotten, and candles burned on each side of the table.

He smiled. That sight was now so familiar and in such perfect harmony that Nolofinwë was afraid to disturb it with his intrusion. Instead of words, he opened up the barriers on his mind and extended the love he was feeling through their bond. Immediately, as if called, Fëanáro snapped his head up and blinked fast – and Nolofinwë smiled expectantly, knowing it always took his brother a few seconds to understand that he was not seeing an illusion, that Nolofinwë was really there.

“Nolvo!” 

The chair screeched noisily on the floor, and Fëanáro stood up in a whirlwind of jet hair. Within seconds, he was in Nolofinwë’s arms, crushing his lungs in an embrace so tight those who saw them would say they had been a lifetime apart. 

“Hello, brother,” he whispered low in Fëanáro’s ears, delighting with the shiver that broke goosebumps in his skin.

“When have you arrived? Why have you not sent a message?” He clipped withdrawing just a fraction to look into Nolofinwë’s eyes, hands still gripping his tunic, then brushing off the charcoal that had tainted it.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Nolofinwë finished on his brother’s lips. 

Their mouths met with equal longing, teeth clashing in their infinite hunger to delve into the other’s taste. Nolofinwë smiled as he moved to bite and lavish the juncture of his brother’s neck and shoulder, making him moan softly. Fëanáro didn’t wait long to move them to a newly added chamber adjacent to the workshop, where a bed had been placed. Nolofinwë’s eyes widened when they crossed the threshold.

“Hundreds of letters exchanged, and you failed to mention you were building a new chamber in here?” He said while deft fingers did a fine job at unclothing him.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Fëanáro smirked, tossing away robes and shirt.

“Well, you certainly did,” he grinned. 

A quick look around told Nolofinwë more of his brother’s new abode. There was also a cabinet nearby, a tray of several empty dishes, and four bottles of wine, two of them empty. The drapes of the balcony that faced the back of the building were equally shut. He looked closely at his brother and searched those diamond eyes for signs of exhaustion or weariness. There was none. Fëanáro might have sensed his feelings, for he chuckled and said:

“I am well, brother, don’t let Waimano’s words worry you,” he stood naked, and Nolofinwë felt faint with the sight. Fëanáro beckoned to him, and he went without a second thought.

It was quick and intense like a wave that crashes against the rocks, their cries exploding through the walls in unison, slowly receding in the undertow of their love. They lay together for a long while, basking in the nearness of their damp bodies, tracing light fingers over hot flesh. Nolofinwë let his thoughts drift inside his brother’s, and felt the response, as their minds joined as one. He sighed contented, hand buried to the wrist in Fëanáro’s wild mane.

“Your barriers are weak,” Fëanáro breathed over his chest and dropped little kisses where mouth met body.

“It’s hardly my fault, not after so long and especially not when you look so beautiful,” he smiled, but Fëanáro raised his head, and their eyes met. Nolofinwë sighed. “I know. I should be more careful, but it hadn’t happened before today. I have been very meticulous, brother.”

Fëanáro nodded. “You must. I know it can be exhausting to the mind to keep a constant barrier up.”

“You never complained to me about that,” Nolofinwë teased with a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

Fëanáro acquired his barriers the same day Rúmil had taught them – which was surprising, given how his mind had been probed. But like everything else, his brother perfected the mind barriers within a few days. His mind, when he wished, was as impenetrable as an iron wall.

“The boys do, especially the young ones,” he shrugged, “Moryo is taking it rather easily, but Kurvo complains all the time.”

“So, you really are teaching them…” Nolofinwë frowned.

“I thought we had agreed on it. You told me Findekáno was a natural and have learned it fast.” Fëanáro sat up and pulled him closer to his chest.

“He did, but I think his greatest boost was to know Maitimo was learning it too.” They chuckled.

“I thought you would be used to it by now,” Fëanáro rested the chin on the top of his head.

“I am!” Nolofinwë defended himself, a little ashamed of his weakness. “Is this how your apprentices feel when you scold them?” He teased once more and shoved his brother on the shoulders.

Fëanáro laughed but didn’t answer the provocation. “How is Turvo taking it?”

“He hates it, says his brain hurts,” Nolofinwë traced his brother’s perfect features. “It makes me wonder if he really needs them…”

“Brother!” Fëanáro cut him and moved to cup Nolofinwë’s cheek. “Don’t underestimate this, please! Remember what Rúmil said.”

“Yes, yes, I remember…” he sighed. “But you know this also: ósanwë and mind barriers haven’t helped him. And it is hard to see my sons struggling and not be able to explain why.”

“What do you mean? Haven’t you told them?” Fëanáro asked incredulously.

“No, of course I haven’t!” He answered defensively again. “I don’t want to drag them into our mess, Fëanáro!”

“They are already dragged into this, can’t you see?” Fëanáro cried, visibly disturbed. “Nolvo, don’t wait for them to grow up!” He shook Nolofinwë’s shoulders lightly. “Teach them how to protect themselves now! Think about how this could have helped us in our youth had we known!”

“I am protecting them!” He growled, annoyed at the implication of those words, and Fëanáro withdrew. 

Nolofinwë rubbed his eyes with one hand. From his brother’s end of the bond, he could only sense concern and the ever-present love. He exhaled noisily and looked at Fëanáro, who watched him with a light crease on his brows. He knew Fëanáro could also sense his feelings, and that was what had held his brother’s tongue – without the bond, Fëanáro’s lashing answer would probably have turned into an ugly fight and made one of them walk away. Such as it was, with access to each other’s mind, those discussions had stopped almost entirely, a fact that never ceased to amaze Nolofinwë.

“You are right,” he said. “It’s just… they’re still so young… it makes me hesitate.”

“Well, then,” Fëanáro added softly, “if this is your only problem, you know you can always bring them to me, and I’ll teach them.” His brother’s fingers found his loose tresses and started rebraiding them.

“I think they are terrified of your lessons,” Nolofinwë chuckled. “Your boys instilled quite a fear in them.”

“Nonsense!” Fëanáro snorted but smiled. “Maitimo is already helping Findekáno, he told me as much.”

“Yes, but Finno didn’t need much help, to begin with, being as sensitive as he is. Irissë, though, is a little rebel and won’t sit still for more than five minutes for anything!” He sighed. “Don’t look at me like that, háno! And don’t tell me you don’t have the same trouble with Turkafinwë!” He tried to move away from Fëanáro, but his brother held him in place with a hand on his shoulder.

“Promise me you will be more thorough in their lessons from now on. I can oversee it since I am their dearest uncle and my sons, their dearest cousins,” he smirked, and Nolofinwë laughed. 

In fact, Nolofinwë was the one who suggested they learned from Rúmil how to raise mental barriers that same day they went to see him, so they could pass it on to their children. The conversation they had had with the lambengolmor had terrified him in ways not even the tempering with his and Fëanáro’s mind had. Rúmil had made it plain that not only was their connection even more visible through the bond but that their liaison had been clear from the very beginning to those who really wanted to see. 

During those first months of lessons, Nolofinwë couldn’t help imagining Eönwë, or even Námo himself would show up in the palace doors to summon him to the Mahanáxar. He had dreaded the day it would happen. Yet, that day never came, and his heart relented. Living in the blissful years afterward, Nolofinwë hadn’t forgotten their previous experiences, but the eyes seemed less watchful. The last time they had met, Nolofinwë asked Rúmil about the meaning of that, and the master had answered, ominously, that they should not be fooled, for _They_ were still watching. 

“Beware, for they know everything!” He had warned with a hushed, urgent whisper. 

Now Nolofinwë recalled these talks with dread in his heart. If Rúmil had been able to see how their fëas reacted to one another, what could Eönwë have known that day in the wrestling pit? Had he been able to decipher the brothers’ secret desires? And if the Maia could see into his heart, could he also see Findekáno’s strong inclination toward Maitimo? That thought alone made his heart clench violently, and he squirmed in the bed, limbs twitching with the idea of exposing his own children to that kind of mental ordeal.

“Brother…” Fëanáro’s soft voice reached him through his fearful haze. “Nothing is going to happen to them.” A hot hand squeezed his arm reassuringly. “Are you listening to me, Nolofinwë? We won’t let it happen. _I_ won’t let it happen!”

Nolofinwë shifted positions once more, blinked, and the fear slowly receded. Fëanáro’s worried face swam before his eyes, and he sighed, relieved. He buried his face in his brother’s neck, inhaling his eucalyptus, fiery scent.

“Ánin anta estelya, háno,”* Fëanáro whispered in his ear and kissed his temple.

“I do trust you, more than anyone in the world,” he flung his arms around Fëanáro’s waist.

 _Melmënya…_ Fëanáro’s voice whispered in his mind.

They held each other for a long moment, breathing into each other, feeding in the strength of their bonds. Fëanáro disengaged with a soft kiss on his lips and stood up to clean himself and to fetch a glass of water.

“How are things faring with you? Really?” Nolofinwë asked, at last, voicing what had been nagging his mind since he walked into the workshop. Fëanáro looked at him and tilted his head inquisitively. “Waimano told me you have been here for the last three days. Isn’t Nerdanel concerned?”

Fëanáro snorted and handed him a glass of water, as well. “She’s seen worst.”

“Fëanáro, don’t run.”

“Who says I’m running? There is nothing to tell, brother. I haven’t bedded her if that’s what you’re asking.” He snapped.

Nolofinwë felt the annoyance growing in his brother’s mind, and he stopped short. He was worried, had worried about that probability, but that wasn’t what he meant. For a brief moment, he remained silent, and Fëanáro returned to his side on the bed.

“I am sorry, I know you are concerned with my state of mind, but you need not be,” he sighed, listening to Nolofinwë’s thoughts – that he had, deliberately, left open for Fëanáro to look.

“I am also concerned with our family, brother.” Fëanáro stiffened his shoulders, but he continued. “I worry if they sense anything’s wrong since we began the ósanwë lessons, and how they’re navigating living in the same roof as you and Nerdanel.”

“Our family or _my_ family?” Fëanáro hissed like a cornered cat.

“I thought they were the same,” Nolofinwë answered calmly. The mention of his brother’s relationship with his wife was ever like this, tense and bristled.

“Why are you so concerned about it?”

Nolofinwë’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know if you realize how much my sons love yours and vice-versa. Not to mention I am lying naked in your bed while your wife is in her workshop, completely oblivious her husband doesn’t fuck her anymore because he has a male lover that happens to be his half-brother.”

His voice was suddenly cold, and Fëanáro watched him with eyes growing ever wider. 

“You have changed your mind!” His brother said at last, surprise and excitement shining on his fair face. “Have you really? Are you saying you agreed to tell them?”

“I didn’t say that, and no, I haven’t agreed,” Nolofinwë replied. “I still think it’s a terrible idea.”

“It would make our lives much easier!” Fëanáro eyes glowed under his thick eyelashes.

“And involving more people is a good idea, _how_?” Nolofinwë started and raised a hand to interrupt when Fëanáro’s mouth opened again. “No, brother, I won’t listen this time,” he cut. “Your reasonings almost persuaded me, as they always do, but not this time. Answer me truthfully: what benefit would it do to us to tell our wives? Ease our hearts? What then? Shall they live and bear a secret that is not even their own?” He asked gently, for he knew what a terrible burden it was to his brother to live in a lie.

“And what does our silence do to them? What does it do to _me_? I am tired of concealing, Nolofinwë!” Fëanáro yelled in turn, and he stood up, moving his hands nervously. “I cannot bear to look into her miserable face and pretend that I am her husband! I cannot do this anymore, I just can’t!” He finished speaking to the walls and running his hands in the unbound, messy mane.

Nolofinwë breathed out slowly and followed him. Fëanáro watched him, chest heaving slightly faster. But Nolofinwë wasn’t going to fight about this, not anymore. It was not his brother’s fault, nor his, that this was happening. If their relationship had ever been permitted, they wouldn’t have married in the first place – and their children would never exist, and, for that, both of them couldn’t regret any of it. 

He took hold of Fëanáro’s hands and kissed his palms, sending through their bond all the love he could muster, soothing his brother’s frustration. Indeed, Fëanáro shivered, and his shoulders sagged as he moved closer and embraced Nolofinwë tiredly.

“We must, meldanya.” His breath ghosted over calloused fingers. “You know we must.”

“I know,” Fëanáro whispered back, cupping Nolofinwë’s face in his hands.

“Telling them now would draw too much attention to our children. Imagine what won’t they suffer from gossip and public scrutiny. Not to mention it would permanently divide our people. And father.”

“I know,” Fëanáro let out a tired sigh.

“If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for them,” Nolofinwë finished and kissed the knuckles and the back of his brother’s hands. “Do it for me.”

Fëanáro frowned, and through the bond, Nolofinwë could feel all the conflicting emotions his brother’s heart always harbored, and the love he found there was shattering. Fëanáro ran a thumb over his lips and kissed him long and tenderly. Suddenly, he stopped. With their mouths still joined, Fëanáro opened unfocused eyes and stared into nothingness. For a long, terrible second, Nolofinwë’s heart sank, and he expected the worst. They parted, and Fëanáro didn’t move, his mouth was half-opened as if in shock.

“Brother, what-”

“Public,” he whispered transfixed. 

Before Nolofinwë could say anything, he turned on his heels and ran to his desk, taking this piece of parchment and that, searching, searching, until he found the one he was looking for. He grabbed the first piece of charcoal he saw – one so tiny it could be barely used – and started drawing firmer, stronger lines on top of the already finished project, adding minor changes. 

Nolofinwë breathed out through his mouth, relieved beyond words. He still didn’t understand what had triggered the spark of inspiration because, when overtaken by the creative process, Fëanáro’s mind was always completely barred, ere someone would interrupt the frenzied cadence of thoughts.

“Fëanáro?” He asked before his brother got lost inside his own mind.

“The only thing missing from this device was a balance of power,” Fëanáro answered excitedly without taking his eyes from the paper. “The water is supposed to move this sphere, see?” He pointed, and Nolofinwë craned his neck to the drawing. “But without sharing equal parts of heat, the rotation won’t generate movement as it was designed to do. It needs to have these,” he drew two curved tubes, one on each side of the sphere. 

“What does it do?” Nolofinwë asked, dragged into the fascination his brother’s experiments exerted on him.

“The constant movement of the sphere, powered by the steam produced in this basin, should be able to lift heavy weights – think about stones that can be moved higher without the effort of dozens of people, without putting their lives at risk!” He kept on drawing.

“But how will the stones be lifted?” Nolofinwë frowned, hips reclined on the table, trying to find a spot where he wouldn’t sit on anything.

“With this.” Fëanáro’s eyes beamed with excitement as he showed another life-like sketch of a round device in which ropes came out on each side. “The ropes can be attached on one side to the steam device and on the other, on a piece of marble, for instance. So the movement of the sphere would have to be enough to pull the stone up. But how big this device needs to be to support the weight... that’s something I still need to calculate. Maybe Macalaurë already has a formula for me…” he ruffled through the papers, and when he found what he wanted, his eyes skimmed over the pages.

Nolofinwë watched him for some minutes and, when Fëanáro didn’t show any sign of getting up and out, he pressed a kiss on his brother’s temple and moved to the door. That battle was, at last, lost. 

He stepped into the forge once more, and Waimano raised his eyes expectantly.

“Not this time.” Nolofinwë smiled with the corner of his mouth.

“Well, my lord, if you couldn’t pull him out of there, no one can,” the elder elf shook his head.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let him starve. And I haven’t given up. I’ll come back later to put some sense into his head.”

Right now, Nolofinwë knew it was useless to even try interrupting and dragging his brother out of the workshop with some unfinished idea. The most likely thing to happen, as it had the first time he attempted it, was that Fëanáro would be completely absorbed, deep in thought, wherever he went and with whomever. His mind wouldn’t stop just because he was someplace else, and Nolofinwë didn’t even resent it. This is who he had always been and, if Nolofinë was honest with himself, the image of Fëanáro thus focused, flustered and excited with his work, was something that had constantly given him equal measures of joy and pride – not to mention such sight stirred in him an equally uncontrollable desire to pounce and fuck the ideas out of him. 

But he couldn’t possibly face the family, least of all his sister-in-law, with this kind of thing hovering in his mind! So before going back to the house, Nolofinwë calmed his raging blood with a deliberate and careful stroll through their beautiful garden, stopping here and there to admire a flower or the way the rays of Laurelin fell upon this bench or that particularly inviting nook. The fountain gurgled merrily, and he sat there to breathe the scent of moss and wet stone. He started, then, hearing gentle stringing on a harp. It was a simple but beautiful melody, and Nolofinwë raised to find its source.

It was, as he suspected, Macalaurë. The boy – nay, he was nearly an adult! – was sitting on the far edge of the garden, eyes unfocused and deep in concentration. He resembled so much his father in his youth... it was uncanny! Nolofinwë couldn’t help a soft chuckle. The sound was not loud enough to draw his nephew from the reverie, so he got closer and sat down on the grass under the shade of a ficus, appreciating the pleasant weather and music.

“That was beautiful,” he said low once Macalaurë stopped.

The young man whirled to him, startled, and widened his eyes. It was clear he didn’t expect to have an audience.

“Uncle! H-how long have you been there?” He flushed from neck to ears and stood up nervously, wringing his fingers.

“I am sorry to have intruded,” Nolofinwë also stood up and smiled apologetically, “but I heard you playing, and the beauty of the music prevented me from interrupting you. Should I announce myself next time?”

“No, it’s…fine, it’s just… this is not finished. I wasn’t planning on showing it to anyone.” He pointed at the sheets of music sprawled on the ground as the color on his cheeks deepened.

“I will keep it a secret, then,” Nolofinwë smiled and observed how the young man flushed more if that was even possible. He felt a little uncomfortable. Maybe his presence wasn’t welcome? “I, uh, didn’t plan to be here for so long, either. I haven’t even greeted your mother, and she has now all the reason to speak ill of the royal family of Tirion,” he grinned.

But Macalaurë stood still, unblinking, as a bead of sweat grew on his forehead. Nolofinwë moistened his lips and frowned. He gave one last small smile and turned away, leaving the young man to his thoughts. Of all of Fëanáro’s children, he was the only one Nolofinwë hadn’t made any advance with, and that was strange – for Macalaurë’s nature was light and sensitive, and he was cool of temper, much like his mother. Even Maitimo, who sometimes still glared at him with something akin to jealousy, was much more friendly and treated him well. _What am I doing wrong?_ He thought for the hundredth time. 

His musing was interrupted with loud laughter and children running in his direction. Tyelkormo and Carnistir were chasing each other and stopped short in front of him, almost colliding.

“Hello, uncle,” Tyelko said with a smile. “Do you want me to go find my father?”

“I have spoken to him already, but I thank you,” he ran his fingers on the boy’s beautiful gray hair. “I still need to see your mother, though.”

“She was in the kitchen. Do you need us to take you there?” The boy asked with excitement that made Nolofinwë narrow his eyes in suspicion. The kitchen was the first room one came upon when entering the house from the back door, as it was custom in Formenos.

“Take me? I think that is rather unnecessary.” The boys squirmed under his searching gaze. “What are you up to?”

“We are going to- ow!” Carnistir was interrupted with an elbow on his ribs.

“The garden!” Tyelkormo pulled hard on his young brother’s ear and ran off like the little devil he was.

“Ow Turko, this is not funny!” Carnistir yelled and started off after his brother, anger turning his face into a pepper-red color.

Before he went, though, he stopped and turned quickly, flinging skinny arms around Nolofinwë’s legs and planted a kiss on his thigh – where his mouth could reach – and ran off again without another word. Nolofinwë laughed and shook his head. Fëanáro’s children were very different from his own, and yet he loved them all – even the elusive Macalaurë.

He opened the door and saw Nerdanel already there, preparing the midday meal with Maitimo’s and Findekáno’s help. On seeing his sister-in-law, his heart clenched with a pang of familiar guilt – the same kind he felt at the sight of his own wife, and despite the words of assurance he had spoken to his brother just moments ago. Such an offensive betrayal shouldn’t be happening under their own roof! In the presence of anyone who wasn’t Fëanáro, Nolofinwë held his breath and face carefully reserved, the construct that had taken him decades to perfect.

“It is good to see you, Nolofinwë!” She smiled tightly.

“Likewise, Nerdanel,” he gave her a blinding smile, one that had even Maitimo staring for a little longer. 

The young man unexpectedly approached him and pressed one soft, brief kiss on his cheek. 

“Welcome, uncle,” he smiled. How was it that Maitimo approved of his liaison with his father, under the very nose of his mother, Nolofinwë would never understand. But then, Findekáno never said anything in Anairë’s favor, either…

“I wager you have already seen Fëanáro in the forges,” his thoughts were interrupted once more.

“I went to him first to announce my arrival. His smiths told me he has been hiding in his workshop for days!”

“Ah, yes…” she sighed wearily. “You know how he is when the mood takes him.”

Nolofinwë nodded and turned to face Findekáno, who had been watching him with keen eyes, feeling all the conflicts his face didn’t show. They shared one long, knowing look until Findekáno let go of the breath he had been holding, and Nolofinwë smiled to him, too. A reassurance.

“How are the studies going?” He asked, looking from his son to Maitimo.

“Excellent! Findekáno is a quick learner, even if a little lazy sometimes,” his nephew said with a cheeky smile. Findekáno turned the color of the beetroot he was cutting, and Maitimo laughed out loud. “Don’t look at me like that, Finno, you know I have to report to your father lest he will take you away from me for lack of care!”

Maitimo’s words couldn’t have been picked more casually, and still, Findekáno’s ears looked like they were going to blow off steam.

“Yes, you’re right, Nelyo. You must report to me, and I am glad for your honesty.” Nolofinwë chuckled when his son glared at him in turn, eyes hard and wide, clearly a sign for ‘inconvenient father should shut up.’ 

“I know your subjects of choice are Language and History, but could you get something into your cousin’s head?”

“Father said he would test him later, for he must be ready to recite the lore from the arrival of Elves in Valinor.”

Nolofinwë nodded in agreement. “Very good, I shall like to hear it.” 

Findekáno looked from one to the other with growing desperation in his blue eyes, knowing there was no escape from his overpowering elders. He looked pleadingly at Maitimo, but his cousin merely smiled and winked. Nolofinwë approached his son and took a sharp knife from the table and one beetroot from the bowl.

“No, Nolofinwë, you don’t have to do this! You will stain your robe!” Nerdanel came to him and tried to take the knife from his hand.

“Nonsense, Nerdanel! It’s the least I can do for abuse of your hospitality.” 

It was always thus. When he made mention of helping in the kitchen, Nerdanel tried to shoo him. Maybe she didn’t want another male hanging around her skirts, or perhaps it was his presence that was unwanted, but he had gotten used to it. In his brother’s house, he lived by his brother’s rules, and to do chores was one of them. Nolofinwë didn’t complain, even if it seemed a motive for awe and incredulity to everyone else. In fact, their reactions amused him greatly – who thought the stern High Prince, in his fancy clothes, couldn’t chop vegetables like an expert cook?

“Well, alright, then,” she said after a while. “I will leave you three to it as I finish cleaning the playroom. Nelyo, dear, call your brothers when you’re done, will you?”

“Of course, mother, don’t worry. Shall I finish seasoning the meat?”

“Yes, please! It’s already salted!” She shouted, already hopping up the stairs.

When the table was fully set, and still Fëanáro didn’t appear, Nerdanel sighed. “Let us begin.”

“I will call him,” Nolofinwë meant to stand up.

“Good luck with that,” Tyelkormo murmured with a pout and received a hard stare from Maitimo.

“No, please, stay there,” she said dismissively. “Turko, go fetch your father, please.”

“Why me? He won’t listen! It’s Nelyo who atar always listens to!” The boy cried.

“He is right, amil. I will go,” Maitimo replied.

“Sit down, dear,” she motioned her eldest with a hand. “Turkafinwë, do you want me to repeat it, or shall I tell your father that you are disobeying a direct order? You know the punishment for that.”

The gray-haired boy winced. Even Nolofinwë knew Tyelkormo was the one who hated the punishments the more: doing an entire day of house chores. That was a heavy day of labor for one so young, but it sure taught the unruly boys some discipline. Tyelkormo slipped out of his seat and went, head bowed low and dragging feet, to his father’s forge. A few minutes later, he came back.

“I don’t think he is in there. He didn’t even answer when I called at the door!”

“He is in there, alright,” Nerdanel sighed. “He must have fallen asleep on top of his papers at last,” she said with a rueful smile. “Go on, eat. He will come when he does, _if_ he does.”

Nolofinwë was tempted to stand up and go looking for him, maybe to give it one last try, but it would be extremely impolite to do so when his host had told him expressly to stay put and eat. So he did, making casual conversation about academic life with Maitimo. With Nolofinwë’s support, his eldest nephew had been entitled loremaster by Rúmil as soon as he came of age – to the despair of the old, traditional masters.

The meal went on amicably, and Nolofinwë tried to engage Macalaurë into the talk, too, for the scholarly life as a musician was also something that interested him. But the young man seemed as aloof as ever, eyes fixed on one spot of the table – a burned stain – spoon scraping the dish in repetitive, automatic movements. At last, Nolofinwë recognized the pattern: Macalaurë hadn’t left his music. The song he was working on was probably playing on a loop inside his head. Unlike his father, however, he couldn’t skip lunch to give it his full attention.

When they were almost over, Fëanáro came through the door with a bang. The boys couldn’t hide their absolute pleasure as he sat down on the table.

“Atto!” Kurvo cried and meant to stand up and run to his father, but Nerdanel tugged his sleeve and kept him in place.

“Finish your meal first, love,” she said, driving a spoon inside his mouth. 

Husband and wife shared one look filled with unresolved tension. It was like a thunderstorm brewed under their fingertips. Nolofinwë lowered his gaze and ate, pretending he was sensing none of it. From his brother’s part, at least, there was no remorse for being late or stuck in his work for too long. They held each other’s gazes until Nerdanel dropped her first – an unspoken fight they always had, and one his brother had never lost.

“Hum, I am starving, and this smells delicious! Let me guess…” Fëanáro finally said, smiling so beautifully Nolofinwë had to swallow his swollen heart with the food. “Kurvo, have you made lunch today?”

The boy laughed with delight. “No!”

“Well then… Tyelko, was it you? Venison is your favorite, after all.” Turko giggled and shook his head in denial. He couldn’t cook yet, but helping in the kitchen was one of his least favorite things.

“Moryo?” The boy shook his head and smiled.

“It couldn’t have been Macalaurë, this pie is too white!” Fëanáro said in feigned surprise, for Macalaurë had some talent in the kitchen, but he was too distracted, and his dishes never came out quite how he intended.

As the whole table exploded in laughter, Macalaurë finally lifted his eyes to his father with an indignant look.

“Not fair!” He mumbled and blushed, eyeing Nolofinwë briefly – but in them, there was a glimmer of mirth.

“It was Nelyo, atar! You know that!” Carnistir said with his mouth full.

“Mother made most of it. Findekáno, uncle Nolofinwë and I merely helped.”

Fëanáro raised his brows to his brother.

“What?” Nolofinwë laughed. “I have learned how to chop vegetables.” Fëanáro’s eyes pinned him, and he laughed more. “Yes, yes, after I started coming here, but I have, and no one can blame me for not trying to do it properly!”

“You are a fine chopper, brother,” Fëanáro smirked and chuckled when Nolofinwë kicked his shin under the table, which made them all snicker, even Macalaurë – as Nolofinwë had wished from the start.

“Thank you for preparing this meal,” his brother said softly, looking at Nerdanel. 

She merely smiled at him – there was something smoothed in her countenance. Nolofinwë knew it was how his brother asked forgiveness for whatever it was they had quarreled about. Or perhaps she had also been touched by Fëanáro’s bright mood. Nolofinwë knew it was his presence that made his brother’s heart so light; they fed on each other’s bond as much as Findekáno was touched by his own happiness. His son was openly smiling, sharing secret looks – and, no doubt, thoughts – with Maitimo, as they always did.

When they were over, Fëanáro welcomed Curufinwë in his arms and started taking care of the dishes. Nerdanel, Maitimo, Findekáno, and Nolofinwë stood up to help, but his brother shooed them all out.

“No, no! You have done enough. Macalaurë, Tyelkormo, this little one here,” he hopped the child in his arms, making him giggle, “and I will take care of it. Will you take them to the living room? We will be there shortly.”

“Actually,” Nerdanel started with an apologetic voice, “I had planned to finish Vairë’s statue – or trying to finish it, more likely,” she murmured to herself.

“Don’t worry, I will take them,” Nolofinwë answered. “Maybe I’ll just need a little guidance to get there,” he smiled to Carnistir, who promptly took his hand and led him to said chamber.

The main living room, where the family spent time together, was big and cozy, stuffed from floor to ceiling with books – the whole house seemed to be crammed with them – toys and objects belonging to children from five to fifty, statues, figures and paintings made by skilled and unskilled hands alike. On the opposite side of the door, a fireplace was marked by one of Míriel’s greatest embroidered works, woven with threads of gold and mithril that reflected the light and shone with tiny, bright shards.

They settled comfortably on the couches and cushions. Maitimo sprawled on a sofa, and Findekáno sat on the floor at his feet, ready to be petted like the demanding little cat he was. Carnistir cuddled up with his eldest brother and fell asleep almost immediately in his arms. Nolofinwë picked something to be read alone or out loud, as listening to his voice was something his brother enjoyed. 

Fëanáro and his sons arrived a while after. Macalaurë sat opposite to Nolofinwë, with Tyelkormo on his lap. Fëanáro took the armchair next to his brother and smiled. 

“Will you read for us, Nolvo?” He asked, touching his arm softly.

Nolofinwë’s calm and deep-toned voice filled the room, and there was a general sigh of relief. The boys closed their eyes and seemed to relax with the familial nearness, one that belongs in the routine established by the presence of brothers, cousins, uncles, and close kin alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The device Fëanor is working on is actually an aeolipile, allegedly the first steam engine in history created by Heron of Alexandria, a Greek engineer who lived in Roman Egypt in 1st-century b. C.
> 
> *Ánin anta estelya, háno (Q): trust me, brother  
> melmënya (Q): my love  
> meldanya (Q): my beloved
> 
> **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Canafinwë (Macalaurë, Káno) - Maglor  
> Turcafinwë (Tyelkormo, Turko, Tyelko) - Celegorm  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin  
> Findekáno (Finno) - Fingon  
> Turukáno (Turvo) - Turgon  
> Irissë - Aredhel


	29. Many conversations

Nolofinwë had been reading for a long time, so when Macalaurë suddenly sprung up and mumbled that he needed to finish a song, the room finally stirred. Turko started jumping in the middle of the living room while singing a tune about sea animals, and Curufinwë woke up crying – which, in turn, woke up Carnistir. Maitimo and Fëanáro soothed each child they had in their arms, as Findekáno stood up with a heavy sigh and approached him.

“Atar, must I really go home today?”

“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” he ran a hand on the jet hair. “Your mother is expecting you in three days-time.”

“But why is it always me who has to go to the Spring Ceremony? Why can’t I stay here with you? Please, atar, it’s Turukáno’s turn to go!” 

He pleaded, the childish eagerness to stay in his cousin’s company betraying that in only twelve years, he would come of age. Nolofinwë remembered well the Spring Ceremony, a tedious religious event that took place before the Festival began. It has been years Nolofinwë didn’t attend the Ceremony anymore, and he understood better than anyone (except, perhaps, his heretic half-brother) Findekáno’s reluctance.

“You know the rules. All of you are going with your mother, and that’s the end of it,” He said with a definitive voice.

“One more day, then! I can ride back tomorrow morning and still arrive in the palace on time!” The young man tried.

“You won’t make it on time,” he argued.

“I will be there in a fortnight, Finno,” Maitimo intervened. “You won’t have to wait long to see me again,” he nudged his cousin’s rib with the elbow, earning a lovely smile. 

“It’s not just that!” Findekáno turned to his father again, regaining his pleading expression. “The Ceremony is terribly boring, I don’t understand why mother insists upon us going!”

Sat in his armchair, Fëanáro chuckled. In the palace, this would be a statement worthy of punishment, for the Ceremony was held by Yavanna and Nessa. However, in his brother’s house, this kind of comment not only was not punishable but remarks like those – and worst – were common and laughed at.

“Wouldn’t you go to the Ceremony with me if I asked you?”

“Of course I would!” The young man answered promptly.

“Why can’t you do this for your mother as well?”

“Because!” Findekáno didn’t have to answer. Nolofinwë knew rather well that it had everything to do with the possibility of being around one cousin in particular.

“Your mother wants all of you to go because she can sense, as much as I, that you are growing up far too fast for our liking,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb on his eldest’s shoulder. “She wants to spend time with her children. Indulge her, Finno,” he gave his son a small smile, knowing his words were true.

More than sensing blazing eyes upon him, Nolofinwë felt his brother’s surprise at those words. He could feel Fëanáro’s unwavering jealousy when it came to Anairë, but unlike it happened in the past, there was also a melancholy, a tinge of sadness that indicated how much their bonding had changed them. The young man opened his mouth to protest, but Nolofinwë enveloped him in a quick, tight hug and a kiss – the top of Findekáno’s head now reached his shoulders. 

“Don’t argue. Go on and prepare your horse.”

“Alright, atar,” Findekáno said, not without a hint of disappointment. “If Mother wants my company, she shall have it.” Nolofinwë smiled for his bright little star – not so little anymore. “I know Macalaurë needs new strings for his harp, so he might agree to go with me, and the road won’t be so lonely.”

“Hurry then,” Fëanáro didn’t lift his eyes from the book. “Catch him before he starts composing again, or he won’t be able to tell you his own name.”

“Speaking from experience?” Nolofinwë teased, and Fëanáro chuckled.

“What of you, Rusco? Why don’t you go to Tirion sooner with us?” Findekáno turned to his eldest cousin with hope sparkling in his indigo blue eyes.

When Nolofinwë turned his eyes to his nephew, he saw Nelyafinwë averting him shyly, as if caught doing something wrong. Nolofinwë narrowed his eyes, for it was not the first time his nephew behaved thus. His face had reddened a little, but when Findekáno spoke to him, Maitimo’s face lit up as if reflecting the light of the stars in its pewter depths. He noticed that Fëanáro was also watching his eldest closely.

“No… I can’t. Although I wished to!” They walked together to the door. “I have to finish the essay about the implications of Quenya in the Telerin dialect for the next scholar’s meeting, remember?”

Nolofinwë saw them walking away, and, as their voices grew fainter, he turned to his brother, who was staring at him with diamond eyes so bright the air got trapped in his lungs. They shared silence for a while until Fëanáro broke it.

“You are a good man, brother,” he said quietly, a strange smile playing on his lips, and melancholy nipping at the edges of their bond.

“Ai, melmënya! What is this? Are you insinuating that you are not?” Nolofinwë frowned and sat on the other armchair. 

Self-pity was very unlike Fëanáro but he, who knew his brother better than anyone, opened his mind and flooded him with the love Fëanáro always feared to lose, always doubted he was actually receiving. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long time before Fëanáro spoke again.

“I am happy, Nolofinwë,” he said thoughtfully. “Like I never thought I would be. And seeing you have established a good relationship with Anairë makes me happy for you, believe it or not. Seeing how well you’re getting along with her is something I loathed to think about my entire life.” _I feared you could really love her_ , he said silently.

A content smile tugged on the corner of Nolofinwë’s lips. He took Fëanáro’s hand and brought it up for a kiss. _There was only ever you_. Fëanáro’s eyes closed as he took those words to his heart. 

“It is true I don’t hate or despise my wife anymore, although I admit I have,” Nolofinwë murmured, staring blankly at their joined hands. “I have resented her very presence, and it was a hard trial, knowing my heart was elsewhere. It is also true that Arakáno is a little older now, and Finno is almost of age… we’ve finally reached an understanding, which is far more than I could have expected from our arranged marriage,” he turned his face to look at his brother again. “Yes, we have found common ground, and our friendship is renewed.”

 _And that is why we can’t tell them about us._ Nolofinwë said inside Fëanáro’s mind. _We would risk the peace and stability it has taken us so long to build._

Fëanáro sighed and kissed his hand in return, their bond shimmering with shared love. “You are wiser and more patient than I could ever hope to be, little brother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fëanáro,” he admonished in jest. “You are the wisest and most intelligent person I know. Patient… well, alright, not so much,” he smirked, making his brother snort. 

“I wish I could say the same about my marriage. Nerdanel and I, we…” he ran the other hand on his glossy mane. “It’s been a very long time since we started a conversation that didn’t end in a fight,” Fëanáro whispered.

Nolofinwë guarded his thoughts and kept his silence. He wondered that Fëanáro and Nerdanel might have understood one another when they were younger, and found many things in common – his brother didn’t have to admit it for Nolofinwë to know it was true. He also knew that understanding and friendship were important in a relationship, but not by far all there was to it. After five children and half a century together, the threads were beginning to weaken, and – Nolofinwë knew now – it wasn’t exactly Nerdanel’s fault.

If he had sowed the happiness he felt beside his brother and reaped a bountiful harvest – one that he could profusely share with those around him, his wife included – Fëanáro was quite the opposite. While Nolofinwë could find it in his heart to make Anairë happy because he was happy, his brother retreated to his private sanctuaries and normally left Nerdanel adrift. All the lying and concealing made his conscience a hard thing to live with, and his company an even harder one. He frowned with those thoughts, for a newfound pity for his sister-in-law blossomed in his heart. He kept all of it, though, well-guarded. His brother didn’t need to carry any more guilt.

“I don’t know how to handle it – _her –_ anymore,” Fëanáro continued. “I don’t know what I should do or say, but at all times, our secret is pressing in my mind, and I can’t… I can’t _talk_ to her anymore – which makes her furious, obviously. Not to mention our profuse and constant disagreements about how we raise our sons,” Fëanáro added sourly. 

Even if he and Anairë not always agreed how they raised their own children, Nolofinwë knew quite well how Fëanáro avoided being in Nerdanel’s presence, and their talks have been shallow, kept to the necessary only. Fëanáro’s fire was so very different from his own, all explosion and raw energy. Lying, concealing, and using masks were restrainments unsuited for his spirit. It saddened him to think his brother couldn’t find a peaceful resolution for it, as he had. Nolofinwë leaned toward him, hot hand still secured between his. 

“Brother-”

A knock on the door made both of them whirl their heads in the direction of the sound. Macalaurë, dressed in riding attire, looked sheepishly at the display in front of him with a pack of letters in his hand. None of them moved for a tense second until Macalaurë dropped his eyes to the floor and blushed from the neck up. Nolofinwë let go of Fëanáro’s hand quickly, a little embarrassed to have been caught by the only nephew who seemed to dislike him.

“What is it?” Fëanáro asked kindly. 

Macalaurë blinked fast and cleared his throat. “A messenger just came from the palace,” his musical voice was acquiring a deeper tone – he too would be of age in a mere decade. “They are for you, uncle,” he lowered his gaze and wouldn’t meet Nolofinwë’s, but handed him the letters.

“My thanks, Káno.” Nolofinwë looked at the seals: Yamantë, the head counselor of the salt mines; Telemmaitë, from the silver mines; Raníel, from the mithril mines and a dozen others… he sighed. “Well, it seems work has finally caught up with me,” he said more cheerfully than the prospect of such bureaucratic work allowed. “Is the messenger still here?”

Macalaurë nodded.

“Would you please send him away? I wouldn’t like to keep the man waiting,” he riffled through the letters without looking to his nephew.

“…a man,” Macalaurë mumbled and chewed his lower lip. Nolofinwë looked up, and the young man was blushing so heavily he wondered how steam hadn’t come off his ears yet.

“I am sorry, what was that?”

“It’s not a man,” Macalaurë spoke louder.

“Oh,” he struggled for a second to keep a stern face while Fëanáro snickered indiscriminately, earning a panicked stare from his second born. “Well, either way, let’s not make her wait forever.”

Fëanáro stood up and pulled Macalaurë into a one-arm hug.

“A girl, eh?” He started, squeezing the young man against his hard chest. “Maybe you wanted her to stay longer so you could ride to Tirion in her company?” He grinned.

“Atar!” The boy shouted and pushed his father away, tearing a burst of loud laughter from Fëanáro. “I am _not_ going to ride with her!”

“You are going with your cousin, then?” Nolofinwë said with a sympathetic smile. 

Behind Macalaurë, Fëanáro looked straight at him, seeing the mirth behind his eyes, and smiled broadly. Macalaurë looked on a fixed spot on his shoulder and nodded.

“Alright, I shall have one last word with him, then. Is he at the stables?”

Macalaurë’s eyes darted quickly to his, and he nodded once more.

“Canafinwë, please tell me you offered her at least a glass of water before coming here,” Fëanáro said seriously now, and his second-born opened his eyes very wide. Fëanáro sighed. “Well, let us all go then, and I will talk to her myself.”

The three of them walked through the house and crossed the lawn to the stables. 

There, Nolofinwë saw a rare scene: Maitimo leaned on the horse toward the messenger, who was laughing with a hand in her mouth, prudishly. Findekáno was silent beside him, petting the horse’s mane and sliding shy glances toward his cousin. When the two elders approached, the messenger regained her composure and took a step back from the bachelor prince – who was acquiring quite the fame of a shameless flirt. She was a pretty maid, truth be told – the dark skin from the Noldor of the South made her lovely green eyes stand out.

“My lords,” she bent her body almost in half.

“Nelyo, good, you’re here,” Fëanáro began, not paying attention to the messenger.

“Atar, uncle, is something wrong?” Maitimo asked cheekily.

“It will be if you haven’t offered one single drop of water to the girl!” Fëanáro gestured to her, who blushed from head to toes.

“I have, atar, do not worry,” Maitimo added with a calm smile.

“Right then. At least one of you has his head over his shoulders,” he looked straight at Macalaurë with an amused grin. 

The young man chewed his lips and lowered his gaze, finding the pebbles under his boots to be particularly interesting. Fëanáro frowned at that reaction. Usually, Macalaurë wasn’t so shy, and Nolofinwë could sense his brother didn’t know what was going on with his second-born, either. It could be just the peak of adolescence… 

“What is your name?” Fëanáro asked kindly, but the moment he turned those perilous eyes to the poor girl, they all heard her sharp intake of breath.

“T-tilissë, my lord,” came the shaky whisper.

“Well met, Tilissë,” he smiled, and Nolofinwë saw how she widened her eyes in even greater surprise. 

Nolofinwë smiled at her reaction. If all she ever heard of the Crown Prince was about his ill-temper, that blazing fire could be particularly disarming – not to mention his kindness, which few ever spoke about. 

“Have you eaten?” Fëanáro continued. “We have enough food for another march of the Eldar,” he graced her with another dazzling grin.

“N-o my lord, my thanks,” she breathed. “I must be on my way.” She finished and looked at Nolofinwë expectantly.

“Ah, yes. You don’t have to wait for me. I didn’t even have the time to read these,” he waved the pack of still sealed letters in his hand, “let alone answer them,” he smiled too, and the girl stood gawking at him. 

There was silence for a time. The boys shifted in their feet, feeling a little discomfort in the messenger’s palpable awe. Nolofinwë shared one amused look with his brother, and Findekáno cleared his throat. Tilissë blinked fast and slightly shook her head, as someone who had just woken up from a dream. Without another word, she bowed to one brother, then the other, and shared one glance with Maitimo, who smiled at her.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Tilissë!” He said brightly. The girl jumped in her horse with wobbly legs and rode off the property.

“You may catch her if you leave now,” Fëanáro said to Macalaurë, who had been fidgeting with the rocks on the ground.

“We thought about riding slowly to appreciate the weather and the views,” Macalaurë answered, eyeing his slightly younger cousin. 

The two young men shared one look that spoke of the many things they had probably talked about in private. Nolofinwë sighed. These boys were growing up too fast… 

“Ride safely. And take care of Finno,” Maitimo said to his brother.

“Don’t worry,” Findekáno beamed one smile to their eldest. “We will be alright and have a nice adventure, won’t we, cousin?” He slapped the back of his hand playfully on Macalaurë’s belly, and a smile tugged the corner of the musician’s lips.

“Have a safe journey,” Nolofinwë put a hand on Findekáno’s shoulder. “And listen to Macalaurë’s every word, do you hear me? I don’t want to hear about any funny escapades. Remember, your mother is counting on you.”

Findekáno looked up to his face, and they shared one of their private moments when the rest of the world seemed to fade. Through their connection, Nolofinwë always made sure to let his son know how happy his spirit was. As it was, Findekáno gave him the most beautiful smile in the whole world.

“Macalaurë,” he turned tenderly to his nephew and saw the other stiffen his shoulders like he was preparing himself to defend a blow. “Please, be careful, both of you.”

“Do not venture too deep into the woods if you want to hunt, and stay close to the road,” Fëanáro added.

“We _know_ , atar!” Macalaurë said, rolling his eyes a little. Nolofinwë refrained a chuckle. Definitely the peak of adolescence.

“When you find yourself alone in the wilds and in danger, you’re likely to forget everything you _thought_ you knew,” Fëanáro said earnestly.

“Last time, Nelyo killed a wolf with his bare hands!” Macalaurë glanced at his big brother with a mix of awe and pride. Maitimo didn’t see the exchange, for he was whispering something in Findekáno’s ear, and both of them were giggling.

“And there were three of us to help him if he didn’t,” Fëanáro responded as calmly as he could, but couldn’t hide the shudder than ran up and down his spine.

“Now go, before it’s late,” Nolofinwë kissed his eldest’s forehead. “Send my love to everyone.”

“Yes, atar. I will see you in a fortnight, won’t I?” Findekáno turned his starlit eyes to Maitimo again.

“You won’t get rid of me so easily, little one,” the eldest laughed and kissed his cousin’s temple. The young man smiled sweetly, and Nolofinwë felt a knot in his chest. Was Nelyafinwë conscious of the reactions he provoked? He mused.

After Fëanáro and Maitimo had said goodbye, the two cousins jumped in their horses and rode off, waving and smiling, their knees almost touching in their excitement. Nolofinwë shook his head and smiled: it was so very like his eldest to call the journey from Formenos to Tirion an _adventure_.

When the two had disappeared on the road, Nolofinwë turned and saw two pairs of blazing eyes staring at him. Maitimo had a little smile on his face – something unreadable, but that made his features glow. He was remarkably handsome now that he had reached adulthood. No wonder the whole of Tirion was in love with him! He leaned down to kiss Fëanáro’s cheek – Maitimo now was the taller of the family – and meant to go away, but one word from his father stopped him.

“Nelyo, wait,” Fëanáro took his arm. “I wanted to ask you about Macalaurë.”

“Of course, father,” Maitimo replied. “Is something wrong?”

“You tell me! Do you know what is going on with him? Since when does your brother act so shy? I thought having a girl-messenger would cheer his spirits, but it seems that nothing can…” Fëanáro shook his head.

Nolofinwë took a few paces away to give them some privacy – even if, through their bond, he could still know everything in his brother’s heart. He could sense the possessive love Fëanáro had for all his children, and how he feared to do or say the wrong thing that would lose his sons’ trust forever. An irrational fear, for Nolofinwë knew that none of Fëanáro’s children would ever consider turning away from him. 

His brother, who now had to look up into his eldest eyes, talked earnestly and listened to Maitimo’s explanation of something – Nolofinwë could listen but chose not to. Whatever was happening with young Canafinwë might not need his interference. He heard Maitimo say something, and Fëanáro, in his very particular, inimitable way, threw his head back and laughed wholeheartedly. He then took Maitimo’s face between those scalding hot hands and kissed his nose.

From far away, his brain wondered how Maitimo, he, and the rest of them didn’t get burned – as the other part answered, almost immediately, that they did, and willingly. Nolofinwë smiled broadly and took a few steps farther away. Even so, he couldn’t help looking back at the scene that filled his heart with love. Fëanáro caressed Maitimo’s face and hair, and the younger elf smiled, leaning into his touch like the leaves seeking the sun. Nolofinwë chuckled. Was that the cat-like behavior Maitimo was teaching Findekáno?

Father and son fell into an embrace that told Nolofinwë much of the love they had for one another, very similar – if not equal – to his own with Findekáno. Nolofinwë turned away, face hurting from all the smiling, and headed to the garden. As it was, Nolofinwë’s mind drifted to the matter of the messengers, which had been an especially thorny topic in their family. It all began because Fëanáro had started spending more time with Nolofinwë’s siblings.

It was due to his insistence – and because of Findis – that women had finally been accepted to have more prominent roles than cooks, servants, maids, and other domestic services. Their sister loved riding more than anything, and, despite being a princess, she did so in men’s clothes, instead of gowns, which earned her constant mockery from the lords and ladies in the city. Also, a lack of suitors. When she was questioned about it, Findis merely laughed and said she was fine – their sister was adamant about not marrying if it wasn’t for love (and she had, rightly, influenced Irimë to be of like mind). It was absurd! Both of them were equally beautiful in body and mind, and Nolofinwë couldn’t think of one man in the court that surpassed them in wits!

When he learned about this, Fëanáro was beyond enraged – not only for Findis’ sake, Nolofinwë knew, but because his brother’s hatred for some of their customs was voiced mercilessly. However, if Nolofinwë was honest with himself, he realized that it had taken him long enough – maturity and having a baby girl of his own – to get out of his egoistic shell to see how unjust their society was to their women.

The subject was obviously a matter of endless discussion and despair between their parents – the queen could not even hear it mentioned that both her daughters would likely go unmarried. When the brothers gathered, Findis and Irimë would listen with wide-eyes as Fëanáro explained why she, and any woman, shouldn’t follow the tradition of waiting around for a husband and should do as they pleased, even if it meant sexual intercourse. More than anything, this information shocked them beyond words, for it was contradictory to everything they knew. But Fëanáro was right: it was indeed a cruel fate that women should pass their entire long lives not knowing carnal pleasures only because they hadn’t married.

It didn’t even cross Nolofinwë’s mind that the provocative content of his brother’s speech could draw unwanted attention because he, too, was inflamed by Fëanáro’s words and defended their sisters’ freedom, as much as he would like to defend his own. Although he admitted the liberty to wear trousers and ride like a man was very different from a male _loving another male_. Being with his fiery half-brother was Nolofinwë’s most rebellious act, one that he was proud to perpetuate, even if it was behind everyone’s back. 

In his heart, Nolofinwë defied the rigidness of their society, which, in turn, opened his mind and eyes fully to the women around him. His own wife, for instance (and his mother, even!). It was true that being happy gave him the necessary emotional distance to look at Anairë with kinder eyes, but it was also under the subversive light of Fëanáro’s constant discourse that he started considering how empty her life might have been and still was.

Nolofinwë was acutely aware of how he was partially guilty of her suffering, and he had always grieved he couldn’t, in his heart, relieve it the way Anairë desired and deserved. He also understood why she was so overprotective of their children, and the fact that all of them, Irissë included, were so attuned to him wasn’t of any help. As it was, he had tried, once realizing it, to make her life a little less bleak. It still wasn’t enough, but a definitive separation between the royal houses of the Vanyar and the Noldor would create a schism too great to be mended; it would be breaking the contract with the Valar and with Eru, and Nolofinwë couldn’t imagine the damage it would do to the Crown and to their people.

Nonetheless, with his sisters, it was another matter entirely. He decided that if there was someone who could do right by them – and his daughter and his young niece – he was precisely the one with the power to do it. So he had told Findis about the position of Royal Messenger, and she had beamed with excitement at the prospect of riding to the farthest places of Aman. Her childish twinkling eyes was everything he needed to decide he must take this to their father. He and Fëanáro had talked for hours, and his brother insisted that he, Nolofinwë, should be the one bringing the petition – which he counter-parted that it was Fëanáro whom their father always listened to. And to that Fëanáro had no answer, for it was the truth.

Thus, they both went to Finwë, and Fëanáro delivered a passionate speech about how women of all ages, married or not, should be able to perform whatever position they wanted in their society. It was preposterous, he had said, that their lives should only revolve around marriage and domestic or artistic activities. It has been a long, hard debacle, and it took all of Fëanáro’s smooth-speech to persuade Finwë that this was the best for the realm. 

At last, their father relented, as Nolofinwë knew he would – as he also knew the matter wouldn’t be so easily accepted by the court. Fëanáro could convince their father, but it was up to him to smooth-talk the no doubt outraged lords. However, when Fëanáro brought up the idea of Findis’ nomination as the first female Head Messenger, Finwë opposed it.

“No daughter of mine will be the matter of such talk! Their princess a mere message deliverer? Never!” He shouted indignantly.

It didn’t matter how loud Fëanáro had screamed his reply that the customs had become obtuse and dated – therefore, so had Finwë – or how Nolofinwë tried to reason that some policies should be changed for the sake of their realm; alas, none of it could dissuade their father. The small victory had been spoiled by the fight that broke between the two of them. His brother banged the doors against the wall and left the palace in a fury like he used to do when they were younger. Finwë was unimpressed and unmoved like rarely Nolofinwë had seen him, and the two spent more than a year without speaking to one another. Fëanáro only relented after one very emotional and guilt-filled visit Finwë paid him in Formenos in which they settled their differences – but, although Fëanáro forgave, he did not forget.

It was settled then, as the king’s wish, that women were welcome to work for the Crown in exchange for goods, if they so wished, putting the choice in their hands, not in their parents’, brothers’ or husbands’. As the first well-born female started occupying more prominent positions – such as ladies _in_ the court, advisors, and head councilors of guilds like Fëanáro’s friend, Raníel – other positions were quickly filled. Curiously though it was, the messengers kept carrying many of the ancient prejudices. 

It was notorious that the women rode in and out of towns and drew a lot of attention, both for the clothing they wore (“A woman wearing trousers?” the old bats from the court would laugh) as for the uproar they caused whenever they arrived. A novelty such as that was fated to receive a poor welcome by most conservatives. The lords also claimed, behind the king’s back, that women weren’t made for certain tasks, and that it was undignified for a high-born lady to look like a man or smell of horse. 

In this, Nolofinwë’s influence had also been fundamental, for he helped the king to organize and deal with the polemic edict – which meant he did all the job. He received petitioners, talked to possible candidates, soothed the lords, and set the whole thing in motion. This simple measure had gained the Crown a lot of popularity, even if recognition fell upon Nolofinwë’s shoulders alone, and not in his brothers’ as it should. Proud as he was, Fëanáro didn’t claim any, partly because he was aroused to see Nolofinwë take the kingdom into his hands.

As for Arafinwë, their youngster hadn’t needed any persuasion that the matter of female messengers was worthy of being taken to Alqualönde. Unsurprisingly, it was accepted faster than in Tirion, for, in Olwë’s realm, women already had more active roles as fisherwomen and mariners. Together, Nolofinwë and Arafinwë had also tried in Ilmarin, but with no success. The Vanyar were unyielding about receiving any such messengers. When they had met in private, Ingwion, son of the king and brother to Anairë, was more prone to accept the offer, but he said he wouldn’t go openly against his father and king.

Nolofinwë’s mind was brought back to the present when Fëanáro called him and came in his direction, blazing eyes lit up with joy. Maitimo regarded him with a beautiful smile on those strawberry lips. 

Fëanáro passed before him and touched his arm gently. “I am going to the forges,” he said.

Nolofinwë nodded but looked back at Maitimo, who had turned and was now walking back to the house. Fëanáro opened the door to the forges and was about to go in when he stopped and turned to Nolofinwë.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Nolofinwë saw the intention inside his brother’s eyes and the wish for them to be alone. He chuckled. Even if they didn’t have the bond, his brother could be read like an open book. He followed Fëanáro through the forges, and they stopped every few steps so the apprentices could ask this or that. Fëanáro wasn’t the most patient person in the world, except when it came to his work. Then, it seemed like he lived inside a cave where time didn’t pass, and he could be talking about the specificities of a metal alloy for hours on end. When they finally reached the workshop, and the door closed behind Nolofinwë’s back, he didn’t even have the time to open his mouth – he let out a muffled moan that was promptly covered by Fëanáro’s lips.

The hot tongue coaxed him into a searing kiss that made his head spin. Oh, Eru, he was never going to get tired of this! They panted through their noses, and the junction of their bodies was as intoxicating as the most potent alcohol. Slowly, almost unwillingly, Nolofinwë lowered his barriers. His thoughts still lingered on his nephew’s smile, and Fëanáro looked at him, half-amused, half-jealous. Nolofinwë snorted and ran his thumb over his brother’s cheek.

As they plunged into their bond, Nolofinwë forgot all else. The world faded around him as it usually did whenever they allowed such exchange, shut to everything but each other’s feelings. It was so intense that Nolofinwë never quite got used to it, and the power of their love left him dizzy, his mind so light he could have escaped his body and flown away to meet the stars inside those blazing, impossible eyes. If they could, Nolofinwë knew they would spend an eternity lost in each other’s gaze, needing naught else but the blue and silver lights that reflected their souls.

It was usually up to him to bring their soaring fëa back to reality. He realized his hand still held Fëanáro’s face, so he brought it down to rest on the curve of neck and shoulder. It was small acts like those that woke Fëanáro from his daydream. As it was, he blinked fast a few times and diminished the space between their bodies by resting his forehead on Nolofinwë’s shoulder.

“Are things with Nelyo alright?” Nolofinwë asked, his hand never losing the touch of skin.

“Better than they have ever been,” Fëanáro kissed his palm and slid a hand to the small of his back. Nolofinwë waited. The wish to share the news of his other nephew was present there. Then, his brother let out a slow sigh. “Macalaurë, however…”

“I know,” Nolofinwë replied.

“He is not like others – or else,” Fëanáro corrected himself, “the others are not like him.” Nolofinwë felt, more than saw, his brother’s smile against his neck. “He has an even gentler soul than Maitimo, and his sensitiveness toward others is increased when he is engaged in his creative process.” Nolofinwë smiled fondly, and Fëanáro chuckled. “I know how it sounds like, and in this, we are much alike. But Macalaurë is kind and patient in ways I never will be.”

“Brother!” Nolofinwë chided.

“You know that’s true,” Fëanáro retorted. “And lately…” another sigh. “He has been acting strange, even for his standards. Skittish. Shy! Have you seen him around that messenger? I’ve never seen any of my two grown boys acting thus around a girl before.”

“Do you have a supposition as to the root of it?” Nolofinwë tightened the embrace, one arm around his brother’s slim waist, the other deep inside his black mane. He was ever engulfed by his eucalyptus, inebriating scent.

“At first, I feared the worst…” he faltered, and Nolofinwë felt Fëanáro’s heart race where their chests touched. His breath hitched, and his brother meant to push away, but Nolofinwë didn’t let him.

“Do you think he resents my presence?” He breathed.

“No. He loves you, brother, you and all of your sons. He was enchanted when Arko was born, remember? I think Káno actually resents the fact we cannot all live together,” he breathed a laugh.

“He and I both,” Nolofinwë kissed Fëanáro’s forehead.

“All of us do. In fact,” and he withdrew with a start, eyes unfocused and a face that indicated that some outrageous – brilliant – idea was birthing, “it _is_ absurd that we should all live apart. We, brothers and sisters, should live together as one family! If we just-”

“Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë brought him back inside his arms, for his brother had meant to go to his desk. “Macalaurë.”

“Yes. Right. Sorry,” he smiled apologetically and returned to Nolofinwë’s shoulder, running a hand on his flank.

“Go on.”

“I talked to Nelyo to see if he knew anything because Macalaurë reminded me of myself when I was but a bit older.”

“Arrogant and impossible?”

Fëanáro laughed. “Yes, I was and still am both. But, most of all, I was obsessed. With you,” he raised his head to look into Nolofinwë’s eyes, and it were moments like those that took the floor off under his feet.

Nolofinwë’s heart thundered on his chest, and he swallowed hard. He enveloped Fëanáro in his arms, and they clung together like they would drown otherwise. They rocked for a moment before Nolofinwë overcame his emotion.

“Do you think Macalaurë has such an obsession?” 

“He might,” Fëanáro withdrew just a fraction and lowered his gaze.

“What did Nelyo say?” Nolofinwë asked gently, feeling his brother’s concern.

“He knew nothing, but promised me he would try to reach Káno and ask him.”

“Have you talked to him yet?”

“No, but I won’t do it over a letter or risk it over thought. I need to see it in his eyes that this is the answer and see that he is not suffering.”

“Brother, you can’t shield him, any of them, from a broken heart!” Nolofinwë frowned.

“Of course not. I only wish to give him counsel.” Fëanáro shook his head. “I fear for his choices and what they might attract.” 

Nolofinwë sighed and brushed strands from Fëanáro’s loose knot out of his face. “Do not think of it, meldanya. Not yet. Let Macalaurë choose his own path, and then we act upon it.”

Fëanáro shifted on his feet. “I can’t stand the notion that he might be suffering from an unrequited love only because it might be a male!”

“ _You_ are the one suffering from anticipation!” Nolofinwë couldn’t help smiling. “Talk to him first. You don’t even know if it has anything to do with his heart. He may yet be resenting my presence here…”

“I have told you it is not so,” Fëanáro brushed his tunic to expose his collarbone.

“Still. I can’t shake the feeling that Macalaurë holds some grudge against me. He is the only one of your sons with whom I cannot have a conversation, no matter how much I try. I can relate better with Kurvo, if you can believe it!” Nolofinwë unburdened.

Fëanáro withdrew to look him in the eyes. “Nonsense, brother. I am telling you, all of my children love and respect you, Káno no less.”

“If you say so,” Nolofinwë shrugged, not entirely convinced. “Where do you think you are going?” He pulled his restless brother back into his arms and Fëanáro, who already had a sketch on his hand, let it fall to the floor, and laughed.

“Alright, you win. What are you doing all day?” His brother asked, returning once more to his shoulder and dropping kisses on his neck.

“I need to answer a pile of letters that are still waiting for me,” Nolofinwë buried his nose in his brother’s hair and kissed where his mouth reached. 

“Right,” Fëanáro tilted his head unconsciously and exposed his throat even further to the caresses. “And… what are they about?” He said a little breathlessly.

“The miners’ guilds,” Nolofinwë nipped between words. “They all want to discuss in private their requirements before the council next month.” 

Nolofinwë kept pouring hot breath on Fëanáro’s neck, relishing how his brother’s skin broke into goosebumps and how he hummed low in his throat. Before coming to Formenos, it had crossed his mind that maybe, just maybe, they should abstain from such nearness in broad daylight – they risked too much, always locked up in that workshop.

But when Fëanáro panted on his ear, tongue darting across his lips, mouth coaxing sounds from him that he wasn’t even aware he was making… all other thoughts were swept aside. When Fëanáro’s scent and mouth and heaviness were upon him, Nolofinwë forgot all else. There was only his brother, who filled every inch of his being, and intoxicated his nerves to a plan of almost non-existence. 

***

Nolofinwë opened his eyes and found he was alone in the chamber. He didn’t know how long it had passed, but it couldn’t be much: Laurelin’s golden light still shone brightly through the balcony windows. Fëanáro, however, was nowhere to be seen. Nolofinwë stood up and winced with the familiar pains that afflicted him whenever he was with his brother. He took his time to enjoy a good, long bath in the enormous marble bathtub while indulging in a glass of sparkling rose wine.

When even after that Fëanáro hadn’t returned, Nolofinwë guessed he had busied himself with work in the forge, and it was time for him to work on his own duties, as well. He got out when the water was already cold and threw a robe over his wet skin. His brother’s desk was covered in papers, and Nolofinwë tried to disturb the mess as little as possible, making just enough room to read and write.

He stared at the pack in his hands in dismay before opening them. All the missives contained some complaint of sorts – all about decisions _he_ had made regarding the mines. He sighed heavily. Those were some stubborn Noldor. He opened Yamantë’s letter first, as he was one of the most important members of the council, being an Unbegotten and one of his father’s oldest friends. The lord required more safety equipment for the new workers.

A new salt cave had been dug, and there were hundreds of people working underground. Before Nolofinwë took charge of matters, they worked in dangerous conditions, for such contact with salt could cause severe dehydration. Finwë had never been to one of those mines, and they lacked a proper leader before Nolofinwë suggested Yamantë. But he was distant, very rarely present to overlook the work since it was not “fit for a lord,” as many would say, and Yamantë regrettably agreed. Nolofinwë couldn’t put anyone else in the lord’s place without causing a great offense, so he had to put up with his whims. At least those in his care didn’t lack security anymore, and, for that, Nolofinwë was satisfied.

Telemmaitë’s and Raníel’s missives spoke about the same thing: lack of workers to mine silver and mithril. Nolofinwë pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled noisily. He knew they lacked for people. Nobody wanted to risk their immortal lives in such perilous – not to mention often precarious – work. Even those among the Noldor who loved mining were continually complaining about the lack of proper recognition – to which Nolofinwë vehemently disagreed. The Crown was their biggest trader for these materials, and Fëanáro’s forges their greatest one.

His brother acquired enormous quantities of both things for his numerous projects, and the more his skills were known in Aman, more and more requirements to build every piece of craft there was in the land, especially jewels and ceremonial armory – Fëanáro’s skills were unparalleled in everything, but jewels were unquestionably his specialty. 

Nolofinwë spent hours reading and replying, oblivious to the clangor outside and the wax and waning of the Lights. He also couldn’t feel his brother’s thoughts, barred as they usually were when he worked, so when Fëanáro appeared by his side and rested a hot hand on his shoulder, he startled and scratched the pen with one heavy motion.

“Námo’s balls, Fëanáro!” He cursed, looking at the struck-out letter.

His brother chuckled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you.”

Nolofinwë glared at him and crumpled the spoiled sheet grumpily. He stood up and looked for another one, but the desk was in such a mess it was impossible to find anything there.

“I don’t know how you can work like this, honestly!” He scolded.

“I can’t. I haven’t had the time to organize it yet.” 

“Well, I need another sheet, and there is none. How am I going to finish the letter now?”

“Is it urgent?” Fëanáro asked. 

He reclined on the desk and slowly swept his eyes on Nolofinwë’s figure, from head to toe, noticing his flimsy clothing – and the nothingness underneath it.

“No,” Nolofinwë smirked, “but I was in the middle of a thought, and I am certainly going to lose it now that you are here.”

“Are you telling me that I deviate you from your very important work?” Fëanáro ironized the last three words with a leer, making Nolofinwë laugh out loud.

“Thankfully! But, the truth is, it’s difficult to work in someone else’s mess,” he looked and pointed around as a meaning of explanation.

Fëanáro tilted his head to him, thoughtfully. “You are right, my love. It is past time you had your own study here.”

“Here? Sitting on your lap on this chair, or in your bed?” They shared a white-toothed smile.

“I wouldn’t mind to either of those options,” Fëanáro pulled him by the hips. “But no. I mean a proper study, adjoining with mine. You need peace and quiet as much as I, and I don’t want to keep you from your precious guild squabbles,” he grinned, and Nolofinwë laughed.

“Are you asking me to come live under your roof, Fëanáro? Are you sure? Once you make that offer, you can’t take it back.”

Fëanáro wandered his hands over his features. “I am sure. Besides, it’s not like you will be living here fore-ah!” He yelped as Nolofinwë bit his neck. “Can I take it back before you say yes?”

Nolofinwë laughed again, but sobered up, assessing his brother’s proposition. It seemed nothing, really. A study where he could work and read and have his peace of mind while he was in his brother’s home. But to them… it would almost be like living together for one entire blissful month.

“Come, brother, you don’t have to take this as seriously as you take your lords!” He teased, but there was a gentleness in his voice. “And I was not really asking. I have already made up my mind.” Nolofinwë raised his brows, and Fëanáro continued. “You have said yes,” and they both laughed their way to the bed, and away into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> melmënya (Q): my love  
> meldanya (Q): my beloved


	30. Behind the thin veil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I should apologize for taking this long to update, but well, here is a long chapter to make up for it. I hope you like it (if you do, let me know!) :D

At the beginning of every Yavannië, Fëanáro would ride with his family to celebrate the plentiful harvests and the end of Summer. Each year, the festival was held in one of the main Elven cities, in which the kings of the three Elven clans prepared an enormous feast in honor of the Valar – and a time when they renewed their vows of friendship and mutual cooperation. It was an occasion to merriment to all the Eldar, who rencountered distant relatives and friends from other regions. It was also an opportunity to thank the land for its blessings. This year, the festival would be held in Tiron. Fëanáro could only imagine the uproar that preceded the few days before the feast; he had learned from experience that no one had time to _talk_ , busy as they were with the preparations.

His father and Indis would bicker with each other, and even if Finwë always managed a smile for his eldest, Fëanáro knew the stress he underwent on the eve of the festival. He had learned the hard way that it was best to maintain the distance. The last time he tried to steal Nolofinwë’s attention – with their father hovering on his shoulder like a parrot, and Indis irrupting in his private chambers without any warning – had almost sent him into a nervous breakdown. Thus, hate it as he did to pay homage to the Valar, it was an opportunity Fëanáro had never wasted to be in his beloved’s presence.

They would likely have very little time together alone, with every eye turned in their direction. But Fëanáro would make the best of it, as he always did. He thought of these things while they rode, a smile playing on his lips as a tug on their bond reassured him that, many miles from where they were, Nolofinwë was thinking the same things, yearning for their reunion with the same fire burning in his veins. Fëanáro’s smile deepened, and he urged his horse faster to match his heart’s frantic beating. All the concealing, lying and the danger of their relationship was worth it when he felt their hearts thumping as one. They had last seen one another a mere months ago, but it already seemed like an eternity.

Fëanáro also knew he needed to enjoy their proximity while they could because these were times when their discretion was put to the test. On those occasions, they would shut their ósanwë connection and close the bond as tightly as they could inside their souls. Fëanáro could still feel the golden thread pulling, but it was like placing a lid over a steaming pot: the vapor was mostly contained, but invariably some would leak out. Only those with real intent to search for the almost invisible thread would be able to see the thin line of smoke.

Fëanáro and his family arrived in Tirion with calculated precision: they would have time to rest for one exact hour, bathe and dress in the next. All his sons had an hourglass with them, so they had no excuses for being late. He and Nerdanel moved around with familiarity in his old chambers, eventually bumping into each other and smiling apologies, both giddy with excitement – but his wife enjoyed the festivals for entirely different reasons. She would see her own family, childhood friends, and the new ones – his brother’s wives. Fëanáro could barely contain himself inside his skin. The desire to see his brother always overwhelmed his senses.

“Stop, stop moving,” Nerdanel stepped in front of him, chuckling, hands on his shoulders firmly holding him in place. “You have put two earrings in the same hole, and my circlet instead of yours.”

Of course, Fëanáro’s head wasn’t in what he was doing. His bond was shut, but his heart was speaking a very different tune, hammering wildly in his chest. He wanted to be over with this nonsensical preparation and get on their way already! Absentmindedly, he let Nerdanel change circlets and straighten his braids. She unpinned both earrings and showed it to him.

“Which one will you use?”

“This one,” he took the pendant and put it back in his ear. 

It was a red agate the size of a grape, encased in a capped stud of fine golden brocade that, once affixed, dangled gracefully from his ear, not too heavy and blending organically with the black waves of his hair. When put under a certain light, the multi-faceted stone would sparkle the flames of the eight-pointed star from within. It was the same design Nolofinwë had drawn for him for his fiftieth begetting day, which Fëanáro had perfected into a heraldic symbol. Now, his sons had also adopted as their own – and how much the boys loved to exhibit the emblem of the House of Fëanáro! 

Those who had shown absolutely no talent (or will) in the forges, like Macalaurë or Carnistir, fancied displaying their father’s creations with exceptional pride – perhaps it was their way of apologizing for the lack of interest for Fëanáro’s favored craft. But Tyelkormo, whose height and features were like and unlike his father’s, was his greatest enthusiast. He flaunted the jewels with the same pride as his ever-growing beauty; those silver hair and green eyes would one day be the despair of many a parent, Fëanáro would laugh to himself. But this was important for them; their cousins would gape in amazement, and the word would run. 

After the festivals, Fëanáro would receive many commissions, and the jewels that had ornate his family, especially his wife, would invariably become a fashion among the ladies of the court – even if such ladies hated to admit that “plain, ordinary Nerdanel” was a trend-setter. However much he loved his sons for being so supportive – even if they ran away from the forges like wild animals from a hunt – he laughed at their naivety: _they_ were the brightest of his jewels, the things he was most proud of. Many young and old women (even some pressed down men) agreed and cared not for their trinkets, seeking only the heat of their lovely smiles and flaming presence.

He had been finishing his preparation and entirely missed Nerdanel’s oblique glances toward him; how she smiled sweetly, watching him preen himself with grace and power. He missed her loving, longing gaze, only thinking of the meeting he had ahead. As soon as they were ready, the last grains of sand of the hourglass slipped by.

“I will call the boys,” Fëanáro said after helping Nerdanel place the mithril circlet on her head. She merely nodded without looking at him, concentrating on putting her jewelry.

He went to the guest’s wings, hoping he would casually meet Nolofinwë – even if he knew his brother would be at all places at once, giving orders, preparing himself and the children. However, only the servants crossed his path, bowing with awed looks, for the sight of him, fully attired as the Crown Prince, held more than just fascination: it was the most wondrous happening. 

As Fëanáro reached the guest rooms’ corridor, the boys crossed from one chamber to the other, some dressed and ready (Maitimo, of course), some still naked and wet from the bath (Tyelkormo, how not). His eldest ran to-and-fro, tying braids, choosing the colors of jewelry or clothing. The corridor was a mess; there were discarded clothes everywhere, the floor was slippery with water – were those Curufinwë’s footprints? – and there was enough shouting to be heard back in Formenos. He sighed and looked at his hourglass.

“You have exactly fifteen minutes!” He shouted from the hall, and the feet stomped faster, the boys running in despair as the hour approached. “Your mother and I will be waiting for you at the gates.”

As he turned to leave, Macalaurë emerged from his chambers. He was ready, but his face was anxious, and he held two necklaces in his hands. He licked his lips and showed them to Fëanáro.

“I can’t think anymore. Help me decide.” 

One of the necklaces was very similar to his own ear pendant – a coral stone set withing threads of gold reflecting the stars of his house – and the other was simpler, but highlighted the mercury of his eyes. Fëanáro frowned. Macalaurë was not prone to indecision such as this. This behavior set in stone the doubts Fëanáro had been speculating for months: his second-born was in love and anxious about his appearance (which was preposterous, of course! Macalaurë was as gorgeous as any Elf could be!).

“Whichever you chose, my love, it will not outshine your own beauty,” he kissed Macalaurë’s forehead. The young man groaned.

“ _Please_ , atar.”

“All right. How do you feel today?”

“Terrible. I think I will vomit any time soon.”

It was Macalaurë’s first performance in front of a bigger audience than his family. It was a festival tradition that each clan would present their biggest and better accomplishments during the feast, and Finwë had insisted that Macalaurë should play one of his latest compositions. 

“Everyone needs to know who is the best musician in Aman!”, his father had said. 

Fëanáro obviously agreed, but Macalaurë, apparently, didn’t. He was nervous, trembling, and he had dark circles under his eyes. But as Fëanáro kept staring at his second-born, waiting for a better answer, Macalaurë sighed, resigned.

“I guess I am honored, even if I haven’t felt this nervous since amil asked me to compose something for your begetting day,” he started slowly. “But I am also happy because I’ll get to see my cousins again, especially Findekáno. I miss him – all of them. But the idea of playing in front of everyone is terrifying, and I wish I could vanish,” he finished, muttering his last words.

Fëanáro took Macalaurë’s face between his hands and tilted it up so their eyes could meet.

“It’s normal to feel nervous. But you _are_ the best musician in Aman. Your grandfather wouldn’t say it if you weren’t,” he smiled as he saw Macalaurë’s shoulders relax. “Now, if you don’t want to call for more attention than you already do – because you are perfect – go with the mithril one. It will enhance the light of your beautiful eyes.”

Macalaurë huffed a demured laugh with his father’s remarks. Fëanáro didn’t say that it didn’t matter which jewelry any of his children wore: they would always attract all eyes because they were all perfect. He clasped the necklace around Macalaurë’s throat and was immediately engulfed in a tight embrace.

“Well, then,” Fëanáro smiled above his head. “If you’re done, help your brothers. I’ll escort your mother out.”

Macalaurë turned just in time to grab Carnistir by his arm and drag him back to a chamber, exclaiming they had to stop running or they would ruin their clothes. 

“Five minutes!” Fëanáro shouted.

Nerdanel was waiting for him at the stairs before his chambers. She looked dashing in a dark-red gown – the design was her own, simple but delicate, shaping her curvy body with elegance. She was a pretty woman, despite what the others said about her. Ruefully, Fëanáro admitted he wouldn’t have any other as the mother of his children.

“How is it going?” She asked.

“They will be late, as usual,” Fëanáro grinned, but Nerdanel made an impatient sound.

“Tyelkormo?” She guessed, lacing her arm around his.

“He was not even dressed. But you know how he is. He enjoys taking his time. He will be ready. Eventually.”

“He better, or else I will go there and drag him out whether he is dressed or in naught but his skin!” She complained, making Fëanáro chuckled. She would never do that, of course.

They headed, arm-in-arm, toward the gates. The road that led to Taniquetil was adorned with many lamps and flowers, and the scent of fresh bread, jasmines, and daffodils drifted in the air. The weather was pleasant, and a warm breeze carried the sweet fragrances. He could smell the citric aroma of his father’s skin even before seeing him. Finwë stood looking nervous, straightening his clothes or his crown every now and again. Indis stood poised by his side in a dark-blue gown that made her look bigger than she really was. As soon as he spotted his eldest, Finwë opened his arms and – Fëanáro could tell – gave him the most sincere smile of the past weeks.

They fell into each other’s embrace, and a wave of emotion took Fëanáro by surprise. He missed spending time with his father as they used to do when he was younger. But as the children came – and as their political differences increased – they had seen each other less and less. Finwë withdrew to look inside his son’s eyes and laughed, clapping a hand on his back.

“You look good, my boy!”

Fëanáro grinned. “You do too, atar. A little anxious, perhaps?”

“Oh, you know…” Finwë’s smile wavered a bit. “This festival takes my sleep every time we host it. Now our family is bigger, and there’s more to do.”

“Nolofinwë would have gladly shared the burden with you.”

“Yes, of course... But this festival is _my_ responsibility, Fëanáro, not your brother’s. I am the king of the Noldor, and, as such, somethings must be done according to the tradition! There’s no place for novelty.”

Fëanáro groaned inward. “What kind of novelty did he try to implement?”

“Oh, so many things! He wanted to change how we say our thanks to the Valar, shorten the oblation, and even eliminate the tributes! You know your brother, he always has _ideas,_ ” Finwë stressed the last word with a hint of annoyance.

Fëanáro parted his lips in surprise. Oh, Nolofinwë! Of course, he would have tried. But Finwë would never accept revolutionary ideas if not from Fëanáro himself. He sighed, his heart aching for his brother and loving him all the more. He couldn’t put into words how much he missed him, so he tugged their bond, very gently, only to be received with love so fierce it almost made him gasp. Luckily, Finwë had turned to Nerdanel, who had been politely talking to Indis.

“My dear, you look beautiful!” He kissed her knuckles. How have you been faring?”

Fëanáro didn’t hear the reply, for Maitimo came running down the stairs after a half-dressed Curufinwë.

“Kurvo, come back here this instant!” He shouted. But, as he saw Finwë, he smiled brightly and ran to his grandfather, forgetting all about his impish brother who, laughing like the little devil he was, got himself under Nerdanel’s skirt. She gave a startled yelp, trying to free him from under the drapes of her gown.

“Curufinwë!” Fëanáro called imperatively, and they all quieted. “Come here. Now!” Little hands crawled from under the dress, and Fëanáro waited until his son was standing in front of him, robes stained and bare feet covered in dust. “What have I told you about being late?” 

The boy bowed his head and pressed his lips together, hands clasped behind his back with the most feigned innocence he had ever seen.

“Well?” Fëanáro insisted.

Usually, the way Curufinwë always looked at him under the sweep of black lashes made Fëanáro twitch his lips with amusement – that boy was impossibly adorable! But Fëanáro’s patience was running thin. To be close to Nolofinwë and not be able to even see him was more than just frustrating.

“No getting out of the room for those who were late,” Curufinwë mumbled.

“Precisely. Did you think I would overlook you just because you are the youngest of my sons?” The boy remained silent, eyes cast down. “Your clothes are filthy, and you have made your brother’s attempt to get you ready completely useless!” His voice rose in anger, and the boy flinched. “You knew there would be punishment, Curufinwë. For your trespassing, you shall go today without dessert. For doubting or choosing not to heed my words, you shall be forbidden to go into the forges for a month,” he finished relentlessly.

At that last part, Curufinwë’s head snapped up, despair welling up inside the silver-diamond eyes. He wailed, clung to Fëanáro’s legs, soaking the formal robe.

“Come, dear,” Nerdanel disentangled Curufinwë from Fëanáro’s legs. “You heard your father. We need to get you ready in record time!” She caught him in her arms, but the boy cried louder, little arms stretching toward Fëanaro, calling “atar, atar!”

“Take him,” he said. Although it warmed his heart to know at least one of his children enjoyed the forges as much as he did, the sound of such desolated protests would never be less than heartbreaking. He sighed. “Hush now, Kurvo. Go with your mother, and we will talk later,” he wiped the tears that profusely ran over soft cheeks. The wailing subsided, but they could still hear sobs as Curufinwë buried his head on Nerdanel’s neck.

At that moment, Macalaurë appeared with Carnistir, head buried in his elder’s hair. It looked like the boy, too, had been crying, for his eyes were puffy-red. Finwë came to greet them and kissed them, trying to make Carnistir giggle. They had to wait a little longer for Nerdanel to reappear with a finally ready Curufinwë and, behind them, a handsome Tyelkormo in dark-green robes that matched the color of his eyes. Fëanáro started glancing anxiously back. The procession was about to begin. 

“Where is Nolofinwë? He should be here by now! Valar help me if we arrive late!“ Finwë complained for the tenth time.

Fëanáro thought it was most strange. Nolofinwë was rarely late for anything, so that meant something might have happened. Fëanáro wondered if everything was alright. Findis and Irimë had arrived, but still, there was no sign of his brother. At last, there was no more time to waste: they had to leave, with or without the rest of the royal house. It was noon already, and the procession needed to reach the Sacred Hill before dusk, so the ceremony could start during the Mingling. 

The three kings led similar processions, a simulacrum of the Great March. Each king was accompanied by his family, and as they went through the city, the lords followed within a certain hierarchy – the Unbegotten, closer to their kings, would come next, followed by their household. Lastly, would come the rest of their people without any particular order. 

At Finwë’s command, two servants swung open the gates, silver trumpets rang in the air, and the procession formally began. Laughing maids came and adorned Finwë’s mithril-gold crown with a leafy one, brown and orange, symbolizing the beginning of Autumn. Then, lads came and gave him two empty bowls, pouring a special wine produced exclusively for religious ceremonies. Finwë made the first libation, spilling one bowl onto the ground to thank for the fertility of both land and women; the second, he drained in one, long gulp. The beverage was light and cool, and it tasted more of cedarwood than of alcohol. As the two bowls were emptied, Finwë tossed them to the ground, and they shattered, signaling the march to go forward.

Fëanáro hadn’t taken five steps when a whiff of lavender reached his nose. He looked over his shoulder expectantly – yes, there he was! His handsome brother! Nolofinwë carried little Irissë in his arms, and the girl seemed positively annoyed, tugging the white ribbon in her hair with a pout. Fëanáro didn’t have to guess the reason for their delay. As if pulled by the invisible thread that sustained their love, Nolofinwë lifted his head, and Fëanáro immediately immersed inside the deep-blue eyes. They smiled, then, souls singing with expectant joy.

***

The festival was presided by Manwë. It was an unusual sight to behold all the Ainur gathered on the peak of the flat hill, some in physical form, some not. At the beginning of the ceremony, the three kings reunited around a black stone that served as a table. Each of them made three offerings – to the earth, the sky, and the One – tipping on the ground wine watered with sacred ice from the Oiolossë. Once this ritual was over, the princes and princesses who had families of their own came forth to present tributes to the Valar, the representatives of Ilúvatar in Arda. 

Generally, those were things for which they had named themselves of yore. So the Telerin would gift exceptional musical instruments, pearls as big as eggs, or precious objects made with the iridescent shells that were only found in Alqualondë’s shores. The Vanyar offered ceremonial armor, especially spears, their specialty – many of which Fëanáro had engraved with precious gems himself – but also exquisite embroidered textile of all kinds.

As the host’s son and their eldest prince, Fëanáro was the first. He, of course, had brought something of his own making because it was the wise thing to do. He had consulted with Nolofinwë, and his brother had agreed that skipping this tradition would cause too much hassle and draw even further attention upon themselves. He stepped forward and bowed curtly, placing a ceremonial sword in Manwë’s hands. He held the Ainu’s gaze with his chin held high for a brief moment, trying to ignore the tension that sizzled through the air as the Vala accepted the gift. At once, a murmur arose all around them.

The scabbard was magnificent, entirely covered with minuscule transparent diamond shards that glistened in different shades under the light. When Manwë pulled out the blade, some of the lords gasped in awe. Pure mithril, reflecting a white gleam that was unique – it was an innovation of his technique of blending mithril alloys, and that experiment was the first one that had actually worked. He would perfect it later. Let Manwë have that first taste.

“We thank thee for this illustrious offering, son of Finwë,” the Vala’s usual disinterested, airy tone held a tinge of wonderment.

It was Nolofinwë’s turn. He had watched Fëanáro with the mask woven tight over his features – there could be no slip now. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, the fabric of their robes brushed lightly, their shoulders almost bumped. Fëanáro’s mastered the leap of his heart, beating wildly against his ribcage; they were too close, yet too far. It was dangerous, but intoxicating all the same. 

In his hands, his brother had the enormous leather book they had worked together that told the story of the Tatyar, with beautiful illustrations he had drawn himself. Once it was gifted, Nolofinwë returned to his place beside Anairë and his children, not before giving Fëanáro a sidelong glance that said all his mouth and mind couldn’t. Brief though it was, Fëanáro’s whole world narrowed to that single moment – silky hair like oil spilled down the back, eyes more splendid than any jewel or craft – thus missing whatever Arafinwë had brought.

As the other lords of the Noldor began their offerings, Fëanáro felt a mix of pride and contempt. Their votive offerings were plentiful: books of lore, crafts of all types, precious jewelry, and even furniture – one of the lords has actually brought up the slope a new throne for Manwë made of light wood and beautifully carved. But, to Fëanáro’s eyes, the whole practice was offensive, beneath their people. Not to mention the absurdity that the Valar should presume themselves worthy of such worship, like gods ruling over a flock of sheep. It was true that they had never demanded it – but neither had they denied. The very idea made his blood boil with rage, and he set his jaw, trying hard to deflect such thoughts from his mind. This was not the place nor the time.

Once the lords were over, the rest of the Elves presented their own tributes, simple though they were. Shepherds brought sacrificial animals – that were not going to be sacrificed like they once were, before the Great Journey, but would become sacred, eating only of the grass that grew in the Ezellohar; tanners, cobblers, and miners brought what work they could and the more common folk placed small votive images of the Valar made of clay, plants, cooked food, painted stones or even the little objects of valor they possessed. Some would make oblations of milk or honey, but, in the end, it was for the three Kings to make one last libation of the same ceremonial wine. 

Thus, the rituals ended, and Manwë amplified his voice to make a speech. Every year he thanked the Eldar for their generosity and accomplishments, emphasizing how it pleased them to testify the brilliancy of their hands and minds. Soon, but not surprisingly, the addressing turned into something different from the usual cold, unsympathetic, and more than tiresome words.

It spoke of the traditions they held and how the very nature of the Elves was made for them to act “accordingly to Eru’s great plan.”

“It is also a moment to reflect upon the deeds of the past, use the ever-lasting life given to thee to correct thy mistakes, re-address thy wrongs and come back to walk on the path of Eru’s light. We are here to help thee in any way we can, so the Eldar do not stray from the road He has planned for thee.”

The lore attested that Manwë’s mind was closest to that of Eru - but that did nothing to placate Fëanáro’s ire. He doubted Eru would’ve wanted any of them to suffer spite and be cast out of the society merely because they didn’t follow what Manwë called “the natural laws.” The Ainu proceeded to refer to such transgressions of the soul as if they were Eru’s naughty children. There could be no denying: the sermon was directed at him, at _them_. Lords and ladies all around Fëanáro nodded their heads approvingly – not surprisingly, his father included – for those words sounded reasonable and just. However, a single glance toward Nolofinwë inflamed further the already raging fire inside his soul. His brother’s eyes were blank as he stared ahead, face a marble mask. But Fëanáro knew how hot his blood ran underneath all that poise.

He turned his head momentarily to watch the crowd behind him – among the Noldor, Rúmil’s grey hair was like a beacon. Feathery lashes cast shadows over his face, hiding the indignant sparkle of his eyes that Fëanáro knew he would see there if the lambengolmor wasn’t doped into dull apathy. His body thrummed with anger until he felt two warm hands slipping on his: Nelyo by one side, Macalaurë by the other. 

His two eldest looked calm and wouldn’t even mind Manwë’s attack if it wasn’t so obviously directed at their father. Seeing how it affected him, the boys gripped his hands more firmly, giving him strength and love. He took away his eyes from the Vala and smiled at one, then the other. They returned with beautiful smiles of their own – he could eat the adorable dimples off Macalaurë’s face.

He was raging, but his sons gave him everything he needed. When it was finally over, Fëanáro turned away immediately, not daring to look at Nolofinwë a second time. The long procession started tracing back their steps to Tirion’s main square, where the feast awaited them. Fëanáro could feel Nolofinwë’s eyes digging a hole in his back, but he would do nothing until they reached safer grounds.

Finwë inaugurated the feast by breaking bread with the other two kings, and, as a loud cheer erupted from the crowd, people started moving around, drinking, eating, and speaking loudly. As soon as they arrived, the boys behind had fallen into some squabble, and Fëanáro heard Carnistir calling his younger brother stupid. He turned around to glare at him, and, as expected, Curufinwë started wailing. Tyelkormo slapped Carnistir’s head so strongly that the boy, too, began crying. His third-born stood looking at his own hand in shock, incapable of understanding what had just happened.

“Turkafinwë!” Fëanáro scolded angrily, approaching the trio.

“Atar, I didn’t… it wasn’t even that hard!” Tyelkormo looked horrified. “Little háno, I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he mumbled, confounded. 

Fëanáro also slapped his son’s silver ditsy head – although much more lightly, as a warning only – and Tyelkormo returned dark-green eyes brimmed with tears. Curufinwë was already tangled in Fëanáro’s legs, screaming, and Carnistir doubled over himself, a hand cupping the spot where the slap had landed.

“Moryo,” Tyelko knelt before him, shaking, “please, forgive me.” He pulled the boy against his chest, and Carnistir looked up, angry but scared with his big brother’s sudden violence. Tyelkormo cried and soothed Carnistir as Fëanáro took Curufinwë into his arms.

Fëanáro sighed. “What has happened here?” 

The three quieted at once.

“Curufinwë, you first. Why are you crying?”

“Moryo… Moryo said I am stupid and… and a liar!” Curufinwë sobbed between words clutching his tunic.

“Why would you say such a thing, Morifinwë?” Fëanáro asked sternly.

Carnistir began crying again as if his brother’s ails were his own – one sorrow infecting the other. “He _was_ lying! He said that he could see inside a leaf, but it’s a lie! No one can!”

Fëanáro stared for a moment at his youngest son’s head, tears soaking his neck. Tyelkormo had once been discredited for doing things no one else believed he could. He frowned.

“Kurvo, were you lying to your brother?” Curufinwë shook his head in denial. “Can you really see what a leaf is made of?” The baby nodded. Fëanáro’s parted his lips in surprise. He would need to verify exactly what that meant, of course, but it was remarkable! Would it be that his sons were all blessed with gifts that went beyond the common capabilities of the Elves?

“Morifinwë, did you call him a liar because you couldn’t see what he sees?” Carnistir nodded. “So would you call your father a liar because I can see constellations in the sky that you cannot?” The boy opened black eyes very wide, absolutely terrified with that prospect. “Answer it. Would you call _me_ a liar?” He demanded.

Carnistir’s crying re-intensified, and his little body shook with sobs.

“Come here,” Fëanáro said, at last. He put Curufinwë on the floor and crouched before them, pulling Carnistir from Tyelkormo’s fierce embrace. Both boys were still crying as they leaned on him. “Kurvo, explain to us what did you see.”

“A green river,” he said feebly.

Fëanáro thought for a second. Could he see the leaf’s fluids?

“What else?”

“I, uhm… shapes.”

“Geometrical shapes?”

“No. Yes! But… no.” The boy bit his lower lip. Fëanáro ran his hand up and down Curifinwë’s back, silently encouraging him. “I can see what the shapes are made of.”

“How so?”

“The numbers make them.”

Fëanáro was intrigued. Could Kurvo literally see numbers floating in the air? And what the shapes are made of… did he mean that he could see how an object was _mathematically_ constructed? He still frowned in concentration and didn’t see that Carnistir was throwing him anxious glances, yet incapable of believing his brother was telling the truth. Also, the sight of their father unable to understand something was more terrifying than his wrath – there was nothing he could not understand! As it was, Kurvo started sobbing again, but silently, pressing against Fëanáro’s chest.

His attention immediately focused back on the boys.

“It’s alright, Kurvo, I believe you.” Both looked at him incredulously. “And so should you, Moryo. Never doubt your brothers’ capacity to do things other people can’t. You are all unique, and you can’t compare yourselves to anyone. Look at Turko,” he pointed with his head to the other, who knelt beside Carnistir and played with his hair soothingly. “He was older than you, Moryo, when he discovered he could communicate with the animals.”

Carnistir looked at Tyelkormo with awe and hope in the depths of his charcoal eyes. That very capability Tyelkormo had to get along with any pet he wanted was a motive both of envy and admiration. Tyelko’s smile was too filled with teeth, and Fëanáro knew that he also needed some soothing. 

“What happened?” Kurvo asked brightly, tears, and sadness forgotten.

“Many people doubted him, including your grandfather Finwë,” Fëanáro answered, and Tyelko nodded. “You are bound for greatness, boys, all of you. Never forget that!”

“But why don’t I have any special powers?” Carnistir asked.

At that, Fëanáro laughed. “You already have one, my love,” he said truthfully. “The most important thing to remember is that you must take life with curiosity. If your brothers ever tell you that they can see something you can’t, do not be afraid or shy to ask how and why. That counts for you too, Kurvo. You are young, but never take what you see for granted. There are many things in our world that we have yet to discover and understand.”

“Even you, atto?” Carnistir said with a light tone, the pain finally dissipating before his eyes like mist.

“Yes, my love, even me,” he kissed their foreheads with a smile.

“I’m sorry I called you a liar, Kurvo,” Moryo said, extending one hand. “Do you want to show me?”

Kurvo merely nodded and took his brother’s hand. Tyelkormo took the opportunity and tried to slip away with them.

“Turkafinwë.”

The command froze him. Slowly but with a careless smile on his face, Tyelkormo turned to him.

“Come,” Fëanáro took his reluctant’s son arm and pulled him closer. “You should begin practicing swordfight and wrestling, and your bow lessons will be intensified,” he said to the boy’s complete astonishment. “You need to learn how to control your strength, and use it only when – if! – necessary.”

“Thank you, atar!” Tyelkormo replied with a delighted smile.

“You’re welcome. But first,” he said, watching Tyelkormo’s smile vanish, “you need to finish all your pending assignments. Only then will you begin. Understood?” Tyelkormo nodded, defeated, and Fëanáro had to stop himself from smiling.

All around them, the festival went on merrily. He searched for what seemed to be like an interminable hour, but Nolofinwë was nowhere to be found. Then, like a lighthouse calling a ship home, Fëanáro saw him. 

How utterly beautiful he looked! Back straight like a spear, the band-waist accentuating his slim figure and broad shoulders, regal and elegant like a true Noldorin prince. A bolt of lightning ran down Fëanáro’s spine – that sight never failed to stir his deepest lusts. Nolofinwë’s poise was impeccable and left him in a state of constant burning. He looked at his half-brother from afar, the easy (but dazzling) smiles for lords Fëanáro knew he could barely stand. 

Findekáno was by his side, as princely as the father; his gaze had already found Maitimo’s, and they were exchanging something in the privacy of their eyes. Fëanáro didn’t need to draw Nolofinwë’s gaze for, as soon as he approached the king’s stand, Nolofinwë immediately felt his presence. His eyes squinted to Fëanáro and quickly darted away, the temptation of their reunion threatening to undo them both.

A minute later, Nolofinwë excused himself and came to greet him. They stared at each other for so long that Finwë also stepped in, afraid that it was a sign of another quarrel – if he only knew it was, instead, of a reunion of two soulmates...! His brother’s face was impassible as a stone statue. He smiled as if Fëanáro was but another of his lords. His eyes, though… they were a pool of deep waters that Fëanáro had immersed himself for so long and so many times, never wishing to resurface. When they’re gazes met after so many months apart, Fëanáro’s fëa fluttered, and he had to bite back a gasp of unbridled happiness; he felt, distinctively, how Nolofinwë’s fëa reacted to his presence, and they soared together for a brief second, two eagles entangling their feathers, eyes wide open in mutual recognition.

“Brother,” Nolofinwë breathed. He smiled sweetly, and they took each other’s wrists. In public, they never risked more than that – an embrace would be more than their anxious, unsated bodies could handle. “Welcome to Tirion.”

***

Only those who knew Macalaurë well could tell how nervous he was. He swallowed convulsively time and again, and Findaráto’s peaceful presence did nothing to mitigate the responsibility of playing the piece he had prepared for this recital. The group of musicians was already gathered in the center of the square. Silence fell. Macalaurë positioned himself behind the great harp, and, after a couple of probing plucks, he started distilling notes that were pure wonder. When he opened his mouth, the world seemed to have changed around them.

Fëanáro wanted to smirk at those who didn’t believe the power of Macalaurë’s voice, but he was unable. He was transported to the time of the Great Journey, where great perils awaited the Quendi, but also beauty, bravery, and acts of selflessness that had guided the three kings to the Blessed Realm. Somewhere deep inside him, Fëanáro rebelled against that idea, but the power of Macalaurë’s voice was unquestionable. It made the audience see and feel whatever he wanted them to. By the time the music was over, the crowd was silent, and a sense of shock had befallen over them. It was not that they didn’t know what to say, Fëanáro understood. They simply _couldn’t_. There weren’t words to express what Macalaurë’s music evoked.

When the magic dissipated before his eyes, Fëanáro surveyed the audience. They were all gawking. Tears ran down his father’s cheeks, and Nolofinwë seemed to have stepped out of a dream, entranced. Suddenly, as if they had all awoken, claps and cheers erupted like thunder. Macalaurë smiled shyly, and the musicians bowed before leaving the stage. It took him a while to return to his family’s side since everyone wanted to say a word to him or shake his hands – as if his talent could be transmitted by touch alone. Impossible. Macalaurë was, unquestionably, the true Singer of the Song, and not even the Valar could gainsay it. In fact, some of them approached his second-born to say a few words, making him blush so hard Fëanáro thought he would burst.

“That was incredible, cousin!” Findekáno approached him with a huge smile.

“There is no one like my little brother,” Maitimo swung an arm over Macalaurë’s shoulders and pulled him closer, making the musician laugh.

Macalaurë’s eyes met his, and Fëanáro flashed a grin that made his son’s expression melt with relief. He walked toward the trio of cousins and opened his arms. Macalaurë threw himself into the embrace and exhaled slowly.

“It is over,” Fëanáro said for his ear alone.

“Yes!” Macalaurë laughed. “Now, I can _finally_ begin to enjoy this party!”

“Canafinwë! You know this is not a party! This is a sacred festival! You must behave yourself properly!” Maitimo pronounced the words with excessive care and a glint in his eyes that made Macalaurë snort.

“You’re right, Nelyo,” Findekáno added, unable to pull a straight face. “No drinking and no courting _at all_.” They all laughed.

“Alright, alright, this is my cue to leave you be, isn’t it?” Fëanáro smirked with renewed laughter from the boys.

Macalaurë smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ , my sweet, for the gift you have given all of us this evening.” Fëanáro kissed his nose, but the young man immediately wiped it away with an annoyed gesture _–_ there was a limit to fatherly affection, it seemed.

His heart swelled with love for his precious sons, and, as he lifted his eyes, he saw a pair of blue-diamond eyes staring at him with such intensity that it sent a bolt of heat to his gut. Inside Nolofinwë’s gaze, there was more than love. Oh, so much more! There was that same, unassuaged hunger. Fëanáro lost track of time as he stared into his beloved’s eyes. A feeling as powerful and unbreakable as the foundations of the earth.

Without realizing it, they had diminished the distance between them, an exchange so intense the wine in their hands might have boiled. But before neither of them could say anything, a third figure approached, sliding through the gathering with insouciant tranquility. It looked far more ethereal than any other Ainur they had ever met, and it took Fëanáro some time to define it as a _he –_ his features were somewhat blurred, but there was no doubt that his body was that of a male. He had hair white as snow, and thin as wisps of clouds. Still, his clear blue eyes were kind like that of an elder – not inscrutable like that of his peers; he looked far younger than Fëanáro himself.

“Well met, sons of Finwë,” the Ainu inclined his head graciously. “Thy names precede thee.”

“I don’t think we have met…?”

“Olórin. I am a Maia of Irmo.”

Fëanáro glanced briefly at his brother, but Nolofinwë’s haughty mask was put in place – and Fëanáro couldn’t help commending his ability from going hot as a bonfire to aloof as ice in such a short time.

“Well met, Olórin,” Nolofinwë said politely. “Does the Lord of Lórien has any messages for us?” 

The Maia laughed cheerfully. “Oh, no! Today is a day of celebration for us all – my lord included,” he looked behind his shoulders where Irmo was sitting on the grass, smiling sweetly, while night birds chirped at his fingers and an enormous moth beat its wings lazily atop his acorn garland. Not surprisingly, Tyelkormo stood before him, and Fëanáro saw they were conversing. Fear as an icy stone settled at the bottom of his stomach.

“He is quite safe,” Olórin said with a placid smile. “All of thou are safe with my lord. There is nothing to worry about. He cares deeply for thee.”

Sweat pricked Fëanáro’s hairline, and a shiver ran down his neck and arms. That was a straightforward remark, and he sensed Nolofinwë tense his shoulders. 

“I said not to worry,” Olórin’s smiled deepened, and he waved his hand, dismissing their reaction like it was an exaggeration. “Dost thou forget that he is the Lord of Dreams?”

At that, Fëanáro definitely saw Nolofinwë’s eyes widen in alarm. Yes, he thought, they both monopolized each other’s dreams.

“Tell us more,” Fëanáro feigned more calm than he actually felt.

“Irmo sees everything the Children can dream of. The paths of their minds are thine own, but it is he who opens it for thee, and so, thy dreams are open to him as well.”

“All of it?” Nolofinwë asked. “He can see all that we dream of?” His voice gave away nothing.

“Indeed,” Olórin replied. “But worry not,” he said gently. “The content of thy dreams is sacred like all other mysteries of the Children.”

Fëanáro knew what this meant. Irmo knew about them – as did his messenger, Olórin – and if this was not a warning, he did not know what it was. Elves couldn’t control the thorny, frequently untraceable, ways of the dreams.

“Why are you telling us this?” He narrowed his incredulous eyes toward the still smiling Maia.

“What else can I talk about?” Olórin laughed. There seemed to be a permanent aura of joy surrounding him. “I live in Lórien. Dreams are the only thing I know of,” he kept laughing.

“Are you here to tell me of my mother?” Fëanáro asked, steadying his voice. There was inextricable hope in his voice, and he chose to ignore Nolofinwë’s worried frown. “How is she?”

“Míriel Þerindë’s fëa no longer dwells in Lórien’s gardens,” Olórin said. “She now resides among Vairë’s weavers.”

Fëanáro’s breath caught in his throat. “What? Why? I thought she would be in Mandos, waiting for re-embodiment!”

At last, Olórin’s smile waned. “I’m sorry, young Curufinwë. I cannot tell thee what the Lords’ plan is,” he said gently like he was still talking to the frightened child. “But the love she bears thee will never dwindle.”

Fëanáro’s breath came in ragged pants like he had run Tulka’s marathon. Nolofinwë placed a warm hand on his shoulder with a whisper of concern. It was nothing, really, a mere demonstration of comfort. Yet the contact of their bodies almost made him sway. He needed the full touch, needed to feel Nolofinwë’s soul merged with his.

“Dost need not to fret,” Olórin took Fëanáro’s hand, and it was cool like a summer breeze. “The power of thy blood is too strong to be dissolved, even in the spirit realm.”

It didn’t help Fëanáro. He was still thinking of how he had ultimately destroyed his mother, forever banished from the living world. It was his fault, he repeated to himself countless times, and there was nothing, nothing he could do to bring her back! He closed his eyes, feeling hot coals lodged in his throat, burning as his own heart burned.

“Fëanáro…” Nolofinwë’s voice called him back, as it always did.

He opened his eyes to see those two pairs of blues staring at him, one anxious and worried, the other grieved and kind. He wanted to slap the expressions off both their faces. Fëanáro wouldn’t accept their pity – even if he knew the good intentions behind both of them. Yes, even Olórin. He didn’t know why, but the Maia inspired trust. What he had said about the sacrality of their dreams could be a lie – but he didn’t believe so. Or else, his deviancies would have been exposed long ago. Somehow he knew that whatever Manwë learned about their romance was not through Irmo…

“Brother,” a hot hand closed around his arm. He forced his focus back to Nolofinwë, finding none of the pity and all the love. With the corner of his eye, he saw Olórin’s loving smile grow. 

“What is the power of my blood?” His voice came out hoarse against his want.

“Not thine alone,” Olórin said, encompassing both of them under his gaze. “The first Children of Ilúvatar carry power in their veins. Thy family’s blood is particularly powerful.”

“How do you know that?” Nolofinwë asked with an intrigued expression.

“There are mysteries in the world that not even the Ainu can unravel. Some of those, regarding His Children, we cannot fully grasp. But it is known to all of us that some things will remain forever a mystery. The power I speak of is that of _gathering_. Thy blood calls. It always will. It’s a power stronger than one might think.”

Fëanáro closed his eyes for an instant. If he could understand past Olórin’s riddles, the Maia said that his relationship with Nolofinwë was, what? Written in the stars? Perhaps fated to happen. In that, he could believe. The call of their blood was too strong to be ignored – thus the sheer fierceness, the unbreakable bonds between fathers and sons. He stared again at Olórin, finally understanding.

“Yes,” the Maia smiled. “Those who carry both thy blood will always be drawn in unexpected ways.”

That permanent, gentle smile would have seemed false in anyone else’s face, but in Olórin, it simply wasn’t. It was more than genuine. It could be _felt_. A sidelong glance to Nolofinwë, and he knew the same thought had crossed his brother’s mind. Fëanáro didn’t know how, but they could trust him. But why were these Ainu suddenly taking so much interest in what happened to – as they called – the Children? Surely they had better, more important things to take care of? He shook his head slightly, incapable of comprehending – and it was infuriating that he couldn’t! - wanting to know it _all_.

“My lord calls me,” Olórin said at length. “It was a true pleasure, sons of Finwë,” he inclined his head again.

“Thank you for your wise words,” Nolofinwë smiled dazzlingly, extending a hand.

Once Olórin had left, Fëanáro and Nolofinwë shared a look that spoke more than words. There was the forever-binding love, worry, thoughts racing behind the astonishing blue gems. Why? Those eyes asked, brows drawn down with the same doubts. Fëanáro sighed heavily and shook his head. Later, he was saying.

They had dangerously crossed the distance between their bodies once more. Nolofinwë’s warm hand still rested on his arm, tightening the grip, his thumb circling small caresses – it was a prelude before the plunge. If they were alone… Fëanáro swallowed how much he wanted to kiss those sultry lips, bury his hands in Nolofinwë’s hair, and run his fingers through its watery weight.

A smile tugged Nolofinwë’s mouth. Of course, he was thinking of doing the exact same things. Gazes still locked, Fëanáro couldn’t help grinning back. With the corner of his eyes, a red-headed figure approached, stopped, and waited. He turned and looked into Maitimo’s eyes. His eldest wanted to speak, but not to interrupt. Well, they could have no privacy here. He beckoned with his hand for his son to approach.

“Something amiss?” Fëanáro asked, cupping his elbow.

“Sorry,” he smiled apologetically. “I wanted to talk to Uncle.”

Fëanáro raised his brows. Since that kiss, there was some tension between them – but not of the aggressive type. It was in Maitimo’s eyes. Maybe he wanted Nolofinwë – but then, who wouldn’t want to lose oneself in that sculpted perfection? He smiled. It was impossible to be jealous of any of his sons. If the feeling was mutual… why not? The mere thought aroused him as he imagined the two locked in a kiss (and more).

“Do you really want it?” Nolofinwë asked, a little surprised. For a shocking second, Fëanáro didn’t know what they were talking about, and his groin throbbed in anticipation. 

“Yes, it is my wish,” Maitimo nodded. “I want to be closer, see how I can best help our people.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Nelyo, I am happy that someone else besides me takes interest into these matters,” Nolofinwë smirked, looking at Fëanáro. “But why not ask your grandfather? You know I am merely the substitute,” he finished wryly.

Maitimo looked baffled. “Because, uncle! We all know who does everything.”

Nolofinwë exhaled through his nose, half a laugh. “Well, not _everything_. Your grandfather…” he shook his head at that. “But yes, of course. If that is your wish, you are most welcome,” he flashed a smile that took the air out of Fëanáro’s lungs. “I will talk to the king. You can be his secretary. Eru only knows how much he needs one!”

Maitimo laughed and stepped forward, enveloping Nolofinwë in an unexpected, quick hug. “Thank you, uncle! You won’t regret it!”

Nolofinwë huffed a laugh, neck craned upward to fit in Maitimo’s shoulder. “With one condition, though,” he slapped Maitimo’s back amicably, making him withdraw. “You will still have to divide your time between this and finishing your cousin’s tutoring.”

“Of course!” Maitimo added brightly. “I won’t forgo teaching Finno until he is of age.”

Fëanáro watched the exchange with an amused smile as both his brother and son slanted brief glances in his direction – likely expecting him to intervene or give his opinion about what was more appropriate. But he had nothing to say and was thoroughly enjoying how his outrageous mind was filled with the most unbelievable, lewd images of them both entwined. What in Eru's name was his problem? His attention was deviated by a warm hand slipping on his arm and pulling him aside.

“This party is not bad, eh?” Nerdanel whispered laughingly. She probably had had too much to drink, but it was a relief to be in her presence and not have an argument for a change.

“It could’ve been worse,” he agreed.

“Yes, I suppose it could,” she said lightly. 

She didn’t mention that he had _behaved_ like she often did. The festival wasn’t over, in any case, he thought. She led him through a beech arch into an alley that opened to an overlook; its parapets stood high above the ground, and, from there, they had a beautiful view to the city and, far away, the Ezellohar. Telperion’s light hit Fëanáro’s eyes and reflected it tenfold. Nerdanel stared at him with wonder in her green eyes. Fëanáro sighed. Maitimo had been right all along. That look was of love, and his heart grieved for what would never be.

“I think it’s time,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder, and Fëanáro understood. They enjoyed the view for a while in silence. “Don’t you think?” She raised her eyes to him at last.

“If it is your wish…”

“It is.”

He suppressed a sigh. “Well, then. Of course.” He didn’t look at her but could feel the smile pressed against his arm.

“I hope this time will be a girl. There is too many testosterone in that house to drive one insane!” She laughed.

Nerdanel didn’t say, however, that this was the last time she would try it – and that she hoped, for once, she would have a child _of her own_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to stress that the idea for Kurvo's ability/power was given to me by Ann_arien, who insists on not taking credit for all the ideas she so generously allowed me to steal. You know how much I'm thankful for it <3
> 
>  **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Nelyafinwë (Nelyo, Maitimo, Rusco, Russandol) - Maedhros  
> Canafinwë (Macalaurë, Káno) - Maglor  
> Turkafinwë (Tyelkormo, Turko) - Celegorm  
> Morifinwë (Moryo, Carnistir) - Caranthir  
> Curufinwë (Kurvo) - Curufin  
> Findekáno (Finno) - Fingon  
> Irissë - Aredhel


	31. One last time

Fëanáro didn’t realize he had spent many minutes staring blankly at the top of the copper head that leaned on his shoulder – he wished to pierce Nerdanel’s thoughts and tell her the thing that had gotten trapped in his tongue: _It won’t be a girl_. He knew it wouldn’t, yet he didn’t know how he knew. Male elves were not prone to foresight – not like women, anyway – so Fëanáro couldn’t explain his certainty. For it was. He wanted to tell her, shout at the top of his lungs, that hope was useless! That no matter how much she prayed, the Valar couldn’t grant her this wish any more than they could forgive and accept whom and what he was. He sighed, trying to free his minds of such thoughts. That gloominess, he also knew, was the final straw of a very long, frustrating day.

He hadn’t had the proper time to think about what had just happened, the allegedly and unexpected support from another Valar; he didn’t yet know how he felt about that. It left a bitter taste in his mouth; one, sweet and comforting, the other acidic and unpleasant. It felt like they were mere pawns in a chessboard, and that the Powers were making their choices uncaring of the lives they played with, each side trying to mold him according to their personal intents – or, as Manwë would call it, “the greater good of the Eldar.”

Not one of them had ever cared for him in his youth when the edict stating that Finwë was released to remarry was issued, thus confining his mother into the realm of the forever-dead. Míriel would never come back, and not one of them had ever said they were sorry. Certainly not Manwë, the one to pass on the edict himself. 

Despite having called himself an ally, Oromë had said nothing then. Likewise, neither had Lórien, responsible for the place where his mother’s body had lain for so long, nor Estë, who had tended her limp hröa – and most certainly not Námo, who might even have been glad for receiving the first of the Valinorean Children into his Halls. Fëanáro set his jaw, biting at the sudden, unstoppable rage that threatened to suffocate him. No, they had never cared. Not for him, not for his half-brother. 

Ah, Nolofinwë…! So long apart, and not even a single moment alone. He couldn’t touch their bond now, lest they would be exposed. But he knew it to be there, strong and stable as it ever was. 

Fëanáro wanted to run away from the sight of the Trees, away from the mere thought of being played by those petty gods. He wanted to run and fall straight into Nolofinwë’s arms. They needed to talk, yes, but more than that. Fëanáro needed to feel safe, which could only happen in the warmth of his beloved’s embrace. It was likely his brother was feeling as discomfited as he was, worried, baffled with Olórin’s straightforwardness. But, together, lying together – gloriously naked and spent – Fëanáro knew they would think of a solution for that riddle, even if a truthful answer was impossible to obtain.

***

They had agreed to meet once the festivities were over, but Fëanáro couldn’t wait. After he and Nerdanel made their way back to the party, his insistent gaze pulled Nolofinwë from the conversation he was holding with Findaráto and Macalaurë, probably congratulating them for the performance – the first smiled sweetly, while Macalaurë’s neck and ears exhibited the peculiar redness he often did when complimented for his indisputable talent. Once their eyes met, it didn’t take much effort from Fëanáro’s part to convey what he wanted. A moment alone.

Fëanáro turned on his heels and walked into a darker and more isolated alley than the one he had been with Nerdanel – and, he hoped, less susceptible to spying. Back doors from shops and businesses were all there was to see, and there were no windows that could hide unwanted eyes. Moreover, it was possible to watch those who passed by without being seen. He paced restlessly, back and forth – not so much for the thoughts that had afflicted him mere moments ago, but because his anxiety and the reason for his brooding would finally find its cure. 

At last, he heard soft steps on stone quietly behind him, and Fëanáro turned to see that Nolofinwë had, at last, followed him. They stared at each other for a moment – he knew not how long – until Nolofinwë smiled, as welcoming as his arms and lips that tasted of strong wine and bliss. Their bond shimmered slightly, veiled by their wills, but still, he could feel Nolofinwë’s heartbeats in tandem with his own. That, he knew, was something not even the Valar could perceive – not unless they ripped it out off his chest and put it under an augmenting lens or a scale for measurement.

“Brother…” Fëanáro breathed over his mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

“So did I,” Nolofinwë plunged again for another ravenous kiss that left them breathless and panting.

But once Nolofinwë looked into his eyes, he stopped. “What is it?” He asked with that low tone that sent spikes of desire through his body. Fëanáro’s face – unlike that of his magnificent brother – could hide nothing. 

He knew that there would be more to be seen than the anxiety left by Olórin’s actions and words. That, however, was still the pressing matter; everything else would have to wait. Fëanáro let out a heavy sigh and stared into the entrancing blue eyes, waiting for Nolofinwë to take the words and grasp the thoughts that were sitting there at the edge of his mouth and mind. But with their barriers for ósanwë up, his brother would merely sense the thin wisps.

“Their closing in on us,” Fëanáro whispered at last.

Nolofinwë tilted his head, thinking. “Do you think so?”

“You don’t?” He asked in turn, surprised with the calmness in his brother’s tone.

“No… at least it didn’t feel like they were pressing us into action,” Nolofinwë answered.

“Oh, no, they will definitely hound us into a corner before giving the final blow,” he said grimly.

“Not if we keep being careful,” Nolofinwë said slowly, walking past him and looking back at the street. “But I don’t believe that what we saw and heard today was hounding, as you call it,” the corner of his lips turned up.

“No, you are right. Today they were picking their food and poking on the plate with large sticks,” Fëanáro said wryly.

Nolofinwë nodded. “They are definitely playing, and the more I think of it, the less probable I find it for us to win this game.”

“It’s a dangerous thing to play with fire, brother-mine,” Fëanáro said, a feral light caught about him that made Nolofinwë’s eyes grow wide. “Anyone that comes too close might get burned.”

His brother was silent and stared at him. 

“They can _never_ win, Nolofinwë.”

“They won’t. This I swear to you.”

“I take this oath, my beautiful brother,” Fëanáro said, running the back of his hand on Nolofinwë’s cheek, pulling the soft lips apart with his thumb, “and take it to my heart, which is yours. Remember your words.”

***

Nolofinwë was taken aback. That was not Fëanáro’s usual way; that fey glint in his eyes made him look more dangerous – beautiful, hypnotizing! – than any threat. Fëanáro looked, then, like he could indeed burn the entire world with the light flaming within his eyes, and Nolofinwë couldn’t help but think if that was his fate, he would gladly reach out and let it consume him, let it scorch his spirit free – as long as he could ride the crest beside that fire. And Nolofinwë knew he would.

It lasted but a moment, and then it was gone. The fire turned to embers, but it hadn’t gone out. His brother looked unusually tired, and that startled him even more. Nolofinwë, of course, was weary of carrying the bond tightly knitted around his soul – more because he didn’t want to hide it and less because it weighed him down.

“Fëanáro, tell me,” he urged.

His brother stared at him for a long moment, and Nolofinwë knew he was expected to just _understand_. But the bond was closed, and they could not risk it by opening it up now – the festival was still loud, the Valar were still roaming the square. He needed Fëanáro – eloquent, emotive Fëanáro – to speak. But his brother merely exhaled, deep and long.

Yes, of course. It had been a long day for all of them, but Fëanáro would feel it more acutely than anyone. All the lying and concealing were like putting a blanket over his spirit, trying to smother it. For a brief moment, Nolofinwë wondered if their relationship was not indeed more harmful than otherwise; if it didn’t demand too much of Fëanáro, even if it had been of his own choice (but had it?). Then, the outrageous thought flashed through Nolofinwë’s mind before he could blink: Fëanáro’s burning spirit, always burning, leaving back less and less – until it spent. He would finally be released like Míriel’s fëa was…

He shivered violently. _No. Never._ He raised his chin defiantly to the sky – and to whoever was above it – in challenge. It has never been a choice, not really. Not for his brother, not for him, and he was not going to let those poisonous thoughts – the mere idea that his brother would _choose_ to abandon him – spread like a fungus. If there was anyone to blame, it were the so-called guardians of the world, who guarded their load closely enough to strangle. 

Fëanáro stared at him attentively, watching his every movement. Those burning eyes, brighter than the stars, licked over him and sent shivers to places he didn’t remember existed. With a wry smile, he thanked the same skies above him that his brother had not seen even a glimpse of that thought. Fëanáro must never know of his fears.

***

Still, he hadn’t answered. Nolofinwë was deep in thought – that perfect profile raised to the stars, his long, silky hair falling over his back and shoulders like spilled ink – and he didn’t want to ruin their first moment alone in months by bringing them to reality. Any of it. They still needed to think of a tactic; they needed to think of their possible future allies, the probable and obvious ones who would (and already were) against them. He needed to tell his brother about Nerdanel’s request.

But how could he, when his brother looked so peaceful, relishing the coolness of the night, an otherworldly sheen enveloping his oh so utterly beautiful frame? They had shared just a few kisses, and even if Fëanáro agreed with his brother’s reasoning that begged for carefulness, he couldn’t help but reach out his hand and cup Nolofinwë’s cheek. His brother closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the caress, the touch of their skin tingling pleasantly with their connection.

“Won’t you tell me, brother?” Nolofinwë asked, at last, returning his gaze.

Fëanáro sighed again. “Nerdanel asked for another child,” he said simply, fully knowing that his brother would rage, would be jealous, but that he would not voice any of it. Nolofinwë would swallow all his pride and nod because it was the right thing to do. It was the _only_ thing to do.

Nolofinwë inhaled deeply and parted his mouth to speak, but said nothing. Fëanáro thought he saw a brief glint of resentment in his eyes with a sweep of lashes like a butterfly’s wing. Then, it was gone. “When?”

“Tonight.”

“Here?” Nolofinwë drew puzzled brows down. “I thought you were going back to Formenos after the festival.”

Fëanáro shook his head. “Not until tomorrow.”

A small smile played on his brother’s lips. “Well, you _do_ have five children, and Nerdanel is different from other women. She wouldn’t shy from it just because you are not at your home.”

Indeed she wouldn’t. In many ways, Nerdanel had a fire that other women hadn’t. She still followed their society’s decorum, but was not ashamed of her body’s needs – they had bedded many times without the purpose of having children. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that had made them understand one another in the beginning. Fëanáro’s face closed, and he looked straight into his brother’s impossibly blue eyes.

“I speculate how it will be, but I really just… don’t know,” he said truthfully.

Fëanáro had never been able to bed his wife without recurring to his private fantasies, but with Nolofinwë at the other end of his feelings? This was going to be difficult, to say the least. Fëanáro didn’t know if he would be able to keep his barrier up. And if Nolofinwë was to feel everything? He cringed.

Nolofinwë didn’t say anything. He moved up the hand that had been warming his arm and brushed back unruly tresses from his shoulder. Long fingers and blue eyes like gems ran from the jewels that adorned Fëanáro’s hair to his ear, then to the pendant of the eight-pointed star at his throat. The caresses were light, and Fëanáro’s heart swelled to a bursting point with the adoring – nay, reverent – expression in his brother’s face.

When their eyes met again, Fëanáro was lost in its depths. He didn’t even have to listen to his brother’s thoughts to know what he was thinking. He didn’t know if he could do it, yet he must. He loved Nolofinwë all the more for not saying those words but filling him with an all-encompassing love that surpassed all other feelings.

“I want you to come to me... before.” _I need you to_ ,Fëanáro completed silently to himself. 

A frown wrinkled his brother’s features again, and he retreated a step, face pale in understanding. Nolofinwë’s eyes searched his for a moment, and he pressed his lips together, moistening them more than once. For a second, Fëanáro thought his brother would deny him.

“Háno…”

“I know. It is wrong, and you are loath to do it. But I need it all the same,” he stepped forward, cupping the back of Nolofinwë’s neck and whispering over his lips. “I have always done so by my own volition, but neither of us has ever done this after we bonded.” That much was true: Arakáno was conceived when the soulbond had been but a wish in their hearts. But what Fëanáro asked was entirely different. “I know not how it is going to be, but I need to touch and feel your skin against mine, to taste the salt of your flesh.”

Nolofinwë’s chest heaved with quickened breath, the bulge in his breeches suddenly noticeable, and Fëanáro smiled.

“You don’t know what you are asking for,” Nolofinwë said hoarsely, and the breathless tone of his voice made Fëanáro’s blood jump inside his veins. 

“I am asking for your help!” He said fiercely. “Is that such a hard thing to do, brother?”

“Don’t pretend this is about my help, Fëanáro!” Nolofinwë growled, and he lunged forward to bit his lower lip. Intoxicating. “Our entire families are here, and the bloody Valar still watch our every moves like vultures!” His low whispers were even more alluring.

“ _Yes_!” He said with a defiant, equally dangerous wide grin. “They are watching like disgusting spectators, only waiting to snatch their prey. Well, I’m not afraid of them! Let them watch, and let them envy how our spirits burn when we are together!” He cupped both his brother’s cheeks with his hands, closing the dangerous distance that already seemed too short.

“Even if I give you fresh memories to endure the night, how can you be sure it just won’t make things impossible for you?”

It was clear he was horrified and appalled with the idea. Yes, it would be hard, but Nolofinwë's imprint on his soul ran deeper than the roots of a mountain. It would suffice.

“It’s a risk I will be taking. You are right, brother, I _don’t_ know.” He suppressed the urge to laugh at Nolofinwë’s enraged raise of brows. “But if f I must do it – and you know I do – then this is how it must be.”

Ignoring the alarms ringing in his mind, Fëanáro kissed him hard and long, pushing him back against the wall, rolling his hips until he heard himself gasp with the furious spike of lust that rode him. When he withdrew – a fraction, to see the answer he was expecting in his brother’s bruised-red lips and the uncapped well of desire in his eyes – Nolofinwë shuddered.

“Stop, Fëanáro, not here we- we can’t!” He whispered faintly, without taking his eyes off Fëanáro’s mouth, hips moving at their own accord, betraying his very words.

Neither could deny that, whatever happened, it wasn’t with Nerdanel that Fëanáro would spend his passion.

“You already know my answer, you manipulative bastard,” Nolofinwë smirked.

“I need to hear it nonetheless.”

Nolofinwë opened his mouth to protest – Fëanáro received an indignant look, most likely because his brother couldn’t see the point of such formality for an intimate agreement. In the end, Nolofinwë said nothing, swallowing hard on his words.

“Fine. I will help you. Satisfied?”

“Not yet, no,” Fëanáro teased, a tongue darted over Nolofinwë’s addictive lips. He took his brother’s hand and brought it up for a kiss. “Thank you, meldanya!”

“But you must know this is not right.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, trust me,” he said. There was no point in wishing this was not what it took for them to live in peace. “Beautiful Nolofinwëya,” he murmured, relishing the frisson that racked his brother’s body. “My sinful, glorious brother.”

“ _Half_ -brother,” Nolofinwë replied with an amused glare. 

Fëanáro chuckled. “Meet me tonight two hours past the Mingling, in the West corridor that leads to my old chambers.” 

Nolofinwë lunged himself and gave him a brief, hot kiss before shoving him on the chest, pushing temptation away as he walked down the alley back to the main square.

***

Fëanáro shoved him against the wall of the cabinet and ate his mouth with tongue and teeth. Above and around them, several shelves shook with their rough movements, and Fëanáro had to balance both of them over lust-quivering legs. Nolofinwë gasped in his ear at the slight touch of their throbbing lengths, rubbing through fabric, and his maddening brother – the one that consumed his dreams and heart and soul – was all Fëanáro could think of. Not a hair-width could come between their pressed bodies, and Fëanáro wondered, from far of, if he would spend before he went to Nerdanel. 

“Go on,” Nolofinwë panted. “Do it now!” A sensuous, breathless whisper.

Fëanáro growled his response and yanked their breeches down with such fury they might have torn. Nolofinwë hooked his long legs around his waist, and the leaking of their lengths mingled in their hard bellies. It didn’t occur to Fëanáro to get a salve or oil. But as his fingers probed the entrance, his breath hitched, and he broke the savage kiss to press his forehead on the crook of Nolofinwë’s neck. Finding his brother already prepared was almost the breaking point to his frenzied lust. He breathed in Nolofinwë’s lavender scent, trying to calm the rush of blood on his ears.

Fëanáro felt the rumble of mischievous laughter in Nolofinwë’s chest. A tongue sucked his earlobe and shaped the contours of its shell.

“I knew you’d like it,” he smirked. “Go on, melmënya. I want to feel you inside me,” he stuck his tongue inside the ear, and Fëanáro cried with the spike of lust that shot through him with enough violence to buckle his knees.

“If you keep being a wicked, insatiable little devil, I will spend before I even breach you.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Nolofinwë chuckled. 

He raised himself with the strength of his arms and legs and slid down, taking all of Fëanáro in one swift motion. They buried their cries in each other’s mouths. Fëanáro didn’t, couldn’t wait for any adjustment, and as he started thrusting, supporting Nolofinwë’s weight with his arms, the entire cabinet threatened to come undone with them. Nolofinwë bit his lips hard to keep from crying out loud, and he tasted blood. At last, his brother stifled a strangled cry and came hard in the space between their bodies. 

As soon as he regathered his breath, Nolofinwë locked his legs in a vise-like grip that made Fëanáro stop moving. Slowly, he pushed himself up and slid out of Fëanáro’s grasp, who frowned and shot his brother a puzzled, lust-fogged look. Nolofinwë limped slightly to a basin of water that sprung from the wall with a white-toothed grin on his face.

“Here, clean yourself,” he threw Fëanáro a wet cloth.

“Whatis the meaning of this?” He asked hoarsely.

“You asked for my help, brother,” Nolofinwë answered calmly.

“And this is helping me how, exactly?” But Fëanáro understood what his brother intended.

As he still stood there, wet cloth in hands, Nolofinwë took it back and cleaned them. It smelled of mint and eucalyptus.

“There. You can go to her now”, Nolofinwë said when he was done, kissing him hotly, tongue swirling inside Fëanáro’s mouth, tantalizing him further. When he finally broke what had become violent and demanding again, his brother continued.“You have fresh memories,” Nolofinwë’s breath was hot against his lips. Fëanáro plunged to kiss him again, but he withdrew, biting his lower lip most alluringly. “Go, brother.”

Fëanáro flung a very set of colorful curses under his breath, trying to clamp down his release be the sheer force of his teeth. Nolofinwë was right. It was better to go now. A second longer and he wouldn’t be able to respond for himself – he would ram into his brother until the very walls behind them gave out.

“Fëanáro,” Nolofinwë took his arm as he turned to go and hesitated a little. “Think of me, if you must. But do not feel guilty to enjoy the pleasure that the moment gives you. If you can, give this to yourself.”

There was no room for jealousy. Not anymore, not between them. Their bond was enough proof that they could enjoy their legal partners without the fear of betrayal. It didn’t make it any less complex, though. Fëanáro knew better than anyone the wrongness of what they had just done – what they were doing for the last five years! - and he loathed all the lying, the betrayal. But it couldn’t be any other way. He had no sexual desire for Nerdanel, and he had always needed memories of past trysts to bed her. What was one more memory?

Besides, things were getting more complicated as his bond with Nolofinwë kept growing and showed no signs of limitation. Worst, they were beginning to attract unwanted attention. Were they really as obvious as two lamps shining in the dark? The Valar knew, certainly, therefore some of their Maiar – if not all – must know, as well. Many a time, Fëanáro wondered how their wives didn’t perceive it – how could everyone around them be so blind?

With these musings, he didn’t even realize he was already standing in front of the door to his old chambers. He licked his lips, straightened his clothes and hair, and got in. Nerdanel stared at the inner garden, her transparent nightgown fluttering with the breeze that blew through the open window. There were times he wished he was as cool as Nolofinwë, who could share his happiness freely, and not resent those who were an obstacle to his inner peace. And then he exhaled loudly, for the thought of Nerdanel as any type of hindrance was horrid – and more, a lie. He was the one who decided he had no choice but to marry the girl who would become the mother of his children. He was the only one to blame.

“Fëanáro?” She said softly. 

Unaware he had been deep in thought, Fëanáro raised his eyes and met hers, filled with the same concern and confusion he often saw. Sometimes he allowed himself to fantasize about what his life would be like if she wasn’t there. He would never willingly leave her. But sometimes he pictured himself free of moral and ethical restraints, free to live as he pleased. Nolofinwë was always by his side, ruling and loving together as they were meant to. His children were there, too… and it was when his dreaming ended.

How could he dream of living fully when it meant his children would be bereft of their mother? He could never do that, would never put them in the position of choosing between mother or father – because that also meant they could choose her, and Fëanáro couldn’t think of it. He would rather die before living without any of his sons…

“Is everything alright?” She asked, coming closer and looking at him with an even more worried look.

He bit his lower lip, as guilty as charged. “Yes,” he said forcefully. Another lie that he had to tear from the pit of his stomach. 

“I want you, husband. Will you come to me?” She asked, taking his hands in hers and pulling him forward.

She started to undress, shameless of her own body and desires. Even if people claimed she was not a beautiful woman, Nerdanel had never cared. She was confident of who and what she was – something he had taken a long time to master. Ah, what it would be like to feel free inside one’s skin…! He wished he had that same liberty of self. To be able to love without hiding. There would always be gossip among people, as Fëanáro ever heard comments about how immoral and obscene was the fire of his want, which had led them to five children. If people only knew…

“Fëanáro… what is the matter?” 

Her soft voice brought him back to the present. He shook his head. His erection had withered, even though the memory of Nolofinwë’s body was still hot on his skin. He wanted to let his mind be guided by the moment like his brother had counseled him; Nerdanel started to undress him with expert hands like she had so many times before.

Her touch was light but sure, and her deft fingers managed to unlace and unclasp all of his buttons and knots fast, exposing his bare chest to the coolness of the night. She looked at him and traced the muscles in his arms with the tip of her nails. There were love and lust inside her green eyes, and Fëanáro suppressed a grimace – he knew there were neither reflecting in his.

The fingers that traveled along his torso and over his body were alien. The mouth that claimed him, which tasted like blackberry wine, was alien. He had always struggled with the idea of pretending love – something he had never felt for her, not of that kind – when the very beats of his heart sung such a different tune. And now, Fëanáro felt like he was watching himself from a distance. But he must do it, one last time.

He thought of Nolofinwë’s words about seizing that moment’s pleasure, as he had never done. Never had Fëanáro abandoned himself to ecstatic oblivion while making love to Nerdanel – perhaps he had never allowed himself to do so, but now was the time. Fëanáro deepened the kiss – an alien taste upon his tongue – and brought their bodies together, feeling the softness of her breasts against his chest, the curves and smoothness of her skin, so different from what he had come to know and love. Nerdanel sighed softly against his lips and clutched his nape, her shape small and light enough that it seemed she would be swept away with the wind.

He cupped her breasts and kissed her neck, making her gasp and raise a leg to expose her hungriness. She arched her back as Fëanáro roamed open-mouthed kisses in her throat, an alien skin, so different from the one in his mind’s eye. They moved to the bed, and he gave her pleasure because, if he had never allowed himself that, he never failed to give it to her. 

He had never allowed himself that pleasure, he thought with a sudden start. He had always needed help from the memory of others, or else he thought he would never be able to reach climax. But the shameful truth was that he had never even tried! He had given for certain that he could not do it, so he didn’t. Practicality spoke louder when he was younger, and he got used to it like wearing the same worn shirt for years without noticing it was ragged. 

And now – now! – his heart burst with love. He had only to allow himself what he felt for Nolofinwë to be the fuel for everything else like his brother did! And so it was that Fëanáro decided he would pleasure her without restraint – not for the sake of child-making. She hadn’t known that kind of pleasure and how unjust it was that those had been decreed as unnecessary for the sexual act. It “consumed the bodies with unnecessary lust,” he had heard Manwë say that very afternoon.

When his caresses grew bolder, and his tongue darted over her secret spot, she yelped in surprise and jumped away from him. She huddled closer to the headboard and closed her legs like he was some sort of raping monster. Her reaction surprised him, and he frowned. Had he done something wrong? He was no expert, but he was sure he would learn fast.

“What are you doing?” She said urgently.

“Pleasuring you, of course,” he said. “Did you not like it? Did I hurt you?”

“No… no, you- But it’s not a matter of enjoyment, and you know perfectly well!” She retorted a little breathlessly.

“I know your opinion about this, but if you only let me show you how good it can be, I promise-”

“No, Fëanáro!” She cut with wide eyes. “It is forbidden, and, by all that is sacred, they have been here today!”

Fëanáro breathed slowly. “None of them are inside this chamber right now, and I doubt they will condemn us for taking the pleasure our bodies can give us.”

“No, no, stop! Please, stop!” She cried and waved a trembling hand in front of her. “I don’t want to hear about it, not now! And I won’t partake in this… dirty demonstration of unnatural lust, Fëanáro! What if they choose to punish our unborn child because of it?” She pleaded desperately, knowing those were the words that would make him give up. If she didn’t want it, he would never force upon her. “It is good enough the way we always do.”

Fëanáro parted his lips in astonishment and dismay. He lowered his eyes and sighed, not a little disappointed to see his epiphany evaporating in the air like dust. Good enough was not nearly enough. For a moment, his previous way of thinking got the better of him, and he thought he wouldn’t be able to do it. Fëanáro exhaled audibly and threw himself on his back, to let her do how she liked best – the way she could take her pleasure from him. But the erection that had barely begun had withered again.

“I am sorry,” her fingers ghosted over his body down to his length. Despite the roughness of her craftswoman’s hand, her touch was too light and delicate. He covered her hand with his and made her tighten her grip.

“Kiss me,” he asked, regretting how cold his voice sounded. But to that, she acquiesced and let her hand be guided to a more frantic pace.

Fëanáro’s thoughts flew to his brother, and he opened his mind a fraction to let him in. Nolofinwë’s deep voice came to his aid, saying his name and fanning his side of the bond with the unsated lust of just a moment ago. Fëanáro gasped with the memory of Nolofinwë’s heated core, his debauched display, and sounds that made Fëanáro’s insides burn.

Nerdanel then mounted him with a gasp and rolled her hips enough to angle herself right. They moved slowly, and Fëanáro tried again to give in to the sensation, knowing that Nolofinwë was right there on the other side; if he but opened his part, he would be flooded with unbridled love – and that was a dangerous thing. It was a very thin line to walk upon, but he decided that it was worth the risk. With this in mind, he held her by the hips and began thrusting harder and deeper as they had never done before.

She cried aloud, and her head fell to her chest when he touched her walls. He froze.

“Have I hurt you?” He whispered with shocked eyes when she winced. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to!”

“It’s alright.” It was not. She meant to withdraw, but he kept her in place.

“No, don’t!” He spoke softly, and the pain in her face melted away.

She smiled, then, roaming her hands over his chest. Fëanáro brought her head down for a kiss, and they tried again, more slowly but every time deeper. He had vowed that he would give her both pleasure and a child. But deeper thrusts seemed to cause her only discomfort. At some point, she withdrew from his mouth and put both hands on his chest, pressing him down.

“Let me do it?” The request stung him.

He froze again, confused, for he was failing in his intent. He let her ride him at her own pace, with her own strength, until she was moaning and throwing her head back. In the past, he had used his memories to reach completion. He had tried to give in to the present, but it just wasn’t… right.

He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the pleasure alone. In doing such, Fëanáro was assaulted with the ferocity of the other side of the bond. In his mind’s eye, he could see Nolofinwë laid in bed, stretched like a big feline. He held both hands together above his head as if he was tied up, and the muscles of his stomach rippled as he moved, his erection jutted darkly against alabaster skin. Splendid, debauched, Nolofinwë’s image burned behind his closed lids, and Fëanáro finally began to feel heat pooling inescapably in his groin. He groaned with the vision and let it guide him to the place of no return. 

_Ah, melmënya!_ Fëanáro thought, at last, as he reached his climax; Nerdanel had done so a few minutes prior. His mind drifted from his half-brother, whose languorous smile was still imprinted in his cornea, to the beautiful child that night would bring – the only good thing that would come out of it. Fëanáro tried not to be overcome by the force of his orgasm, his mind and heart still opened to where his brother lay.

He didn’t know, however, that his mouth had breathed those words, albeit almost inaudibly; he also hadn’t heard Nerdanel’s sharp intake of breath at the endearment – never had he called her such. He didn’t see how her face softened, and the corner of her eyes glistened, or how her body trembled on top of his, and not from the exertion. He didn’t see Nolofinwë’s worried expression, for he focused on the all-encompassing love of their bond. Thus oblivious, he let Nerdanel rest a shaky head on his shoulder, shivers crawling up her skin as she clutched him tight.

Once Nolofinwë withdrew, he brought up the barriers of their bond with a heavy sigh, for it was a safety measure from prying eyes. In the beginning, he indeed had felt sorry for Nerdanel, hating all the lies. But after his attempts had been thoroughly rejected, his hopes of an understanding with her had been shattered. He was not a cruel person, but Nerdanel’s blindness, her unwillingness to cooperate in what he knew was their last attempt to rekindle the friendly relationship they once shared – had left him empty.

He had been an idiot to believe – no, to _expect –_ he could find common ground with her as Nolofinwë and Anairë had done. Had he genuinely hoped that allowing himself to be with her and to give in to pleasure would magically mend their grievances and severed connection? There was very little left to his marriage, and each moment spent in bed with her was a confirmation, enlarging the hollowness in his chest like a massive black hole. He bit back an exasperated groan. When had this become so ridiculously, if not unnecessarily, complicated?

But he couldn’t think about it, not when she sought his caresses, resting on his chest and muttering softly that she would call the baby girl Ambalotsë. Fëanáro shut his eyes harder and stroke her wavy copper hair without thinking. He waited until her breathing was even, disentangled from her embrace, and moved to take a bath. When he walked away from the chamber, and from the bed they’d shared, he knew things would change from now on – like the cup that would permanently miss a few broken chips – and there was nothing else he could do to stop it.

Was this the exemplary relationship the Valar were so proud to flaunt? A failed marriage that he had forced himself (and dragged Nerdanel into) just because they needed to prove their normality to society? They tried presenting this kind of choice as pure and righteous, but it was all horseshit! What he had with Nolofinwë was a thousand times truer and more beautiful, yet was presented as sordid and aberrant. _A result of Arda Marred_ , Fëanáro sneered inward, as if that was the only possible explanation, the one that explained – and justified – the injustice done to those who did not conform to the rule.

But not even that would stop him. It would take the breaking of the world to make him forsake his love for Nolofinwë.

***

When the connection was broken, Nolofinwë sighed, both with relief and concern. Had his brother been aware of his misplaced words? It was unlikely that Fëanáro would have used the endearment – _their_ endearment – purposefully with Nerdanel. Not that he was jealous. Well, perhaps a little. But it seemed like a mistake – his brother had been deep inside the bond when he climaxed. And what of her? Nolofinwë wondered if she had heard it, too – how not? He said it in abandon, so passionately… Nolofinwë shuddered.

He hoped, for her own sake, that Nerdanel had not heard it, however improbable. It would be a hard blow to put new expectations into their marriage. Nonetheless, if she did, perhaps there would still be some kindliness left between them for raising the child. As for his brother, he must never know, unless Nerdanel herself brought it up. Making him aware of such mistake would only make things worse – and no one in their house needed an even more bristling Fëanáro.

Nolofinwë was deep in thought, sat in Míriel’s old chamber when he heard a tentatively knock on the door – like someone was in doubt whether they should do it or not. He immediately startled, standing up in alarm; his heart pounding heavily against his rib cage as a line of cold sweat prickled his forehead. Who in the hells could it be? No one knew he was here. No one was _supposed to know_! Fëanáro wouldn’t have knocked, so who else knew about it? He could pretend there was nobody in, go into the garden and jump the wall and-

“M-my lord?” Came a faint whisper from the other side of thick wood.

Nolofinwë cursed mentally and held his breath. He licked his lips, rubbing nervous, sweaty hands on his silken robe. He wore nothing underneath it – not that he needed to justify anything to his servants, but the world would run. What was Prince Nolofinwë doing naked in Queen Míriel’s old chambers? He cursed again, running a hand over his face.

“My lord!” The whisper came a little louder, more urgent.

She knew he was there. The bloody girl _knew_. There was no escaping, no denying that. Nolofinwë exhaled slowly, calming the frantic beating of his heart and straightening his shoulders. He opened the door a fraction and saw brown-awed eyes immediately cast down to the floor.

“What is it, Almawen?” He asked politely, glad his voice didn’t quaver or sounded too brisk.

“I am sorry to disturb, my lord, but the Princess is looking for you,” she said slowly, enunciating (and mispronouncing) some of the words like she always did.

Nolofinwë frowned. It was the middle of the night. If Almawen knew where to find him, that meant Anairë did as well. His breath froze in his lungs.

“Is it something amiss?”

“No that I know of, lord, but…”

“Yes?”

“I… I heard the little Prince crying, my lord. Nightmares, it seemed.”

Nolofinwë let out a long exhale through his nose and nodded, stepping out of the room and closing the door behind him.

“You may go rest-”

“Thank you, my lord,” she bowed with an adoring smile and turned away.

“And Almawen?” The girl stopped and turned back to him again. “Do not mention I was in this room to anyone. Not even to Laríel. Understood?” He asked authoritatively, and the girl widened her eyes, nodding vigorously.

“Yes, my lord, of course, my lord,” she mumbled before turning away again, trembling.

 _What an odd girl that is_ , he thought as he watched her back disappear in the lower stairs. Nolofinwë was heading to his chambers when he crossed Fëanáro on a hallway. They stared at each other and, looking at his face, Fëanáro’s expression softened a bit, but not enough, and Nolofinwë could see his mouth pressed into a thin line and his jaw set like he was chewing his hatred.

“Foul mood?” He asked lightly.

Fëanáro glared at him and crossed their distance with two long strides. “Do not dare mock me, Nolofinwë!” He snarled. 

Nolofinwë snorted. Whoever should see that exchange might, in fact, think they didn’t have a good relationship like the tattle of the city.

“What happened?” He asked more softly.

Fëanáro turned his head away and wave a hand in the air like that gesture could contain all the words trapped in his throat. 

“Our life happened!” He snarled again, struggling to keep his voice down. “Our life, our choices, the ridiculous path put before our feet without our asking,” he sighed. When he turned, his eyes blazed.

Nolofinwë wanted nothing more to dissipate those stormy clouds with love, soothing kisses, and the oblivion of love-making, but they couldn’t.

“We have to talk,” he said in a hushed voice.

At his expression, Fëanáro’s fuming stopped at once. His brother looked around and pulled him towards a broomstick closet that could barely fit them both.

“Really? No better place?” A hand flew to his hair and tugged non too gently, exposing his throat. “Ah! Damn it, Fëanáro!”

“Go on,” Fëanáro purred, while his eyes traveled lasciviously over his mouth. The grasp on Nolofinwë’s hair became a caress, and Fëanáro buried his nose in his neck, inhaling deeply. 

“Almawen found me in your mother’s chamber,” Nolofinwë said with a strained breath. When Fëanáro didn’t answer, he continued: “Almawen, brother, the servant girl who-”

“I know who she is,” Fëanáro withdrew and answered darkly, a frown creasing his brows. “Why?”

“Anairë was looking for me.” Fëanáro’s eyes flew wide, and he stilled. “I must go to her now. Arakáno had nightmares.”

“They haven’t lessened?”

“It doesn’t happen every day any longer, but he is still plagued by them. You know how he can cry for hours on end…”

Fëanáro nodded weakly. “Go.”

“Do not worry, melmënya!” Nolofinwë cupped his cheek with a caress. “She may not guess the true reason behind my going to Míriel’s.”

“What of Almawen?”

“I have asked for her discretion, and she will obey me.”

“Let us hope. What can a servant girl do, anyway?”

“Almawen? Nothing. She is completely harmless. She would never take this matter to anyone – no, not Father, not even Anairë, I dare say. But I vouch for her silence.”

Fëanáro nodded again. “Go take care of your boy. Will I see you later?”

“I don’t think it’s wise, brother. Even if Almawen says nothing – and she won’t – there’s still Anairë. It won’t be so easy to slip away a second time.”

***

Even before Nolofinwë had reached his chambers, Arakáno’s wailing was audible from the outside. His heart clenched with guilt – he should have been here to watch over his son’s troubled sleep. He found him perched on Anairë’s lap in their bed. She rocked him with a soft song and said softly:

“Look who’s here, baby,” she looked up at him with a wary smile. “Won’t you stop crying for your atto?”

At the mention of his father, Arakáno raised his tear-streaked head from Anairë’s chest and stretched little arms towards Nolofinwë. He sat down beside his wife and welcomed the boy, who, finding himself safe within his father’s strong embrace, immediately started sobbing with renewed strength.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, it’s over,” he rubbed the boy’s back. “Atto and mamil are here with you.”

Nolofinwë managed to loosen the tiny hands from his robe, that – for his complete shame and horror – had exposed his naked chest. It wasn’t before long, and Arakáno finally slumbered into sleep. Nolofinwë closed his eyes and held the child closer, protectively. He felt Anairë’s hand in his arm and looked up to see his smiling wife, eyes warm with love. If she knew about where he spent most his nights – and, therefore, about the nature of his relationship with Fëanáro – she didn’t show. Her smile was kind and not at all judgemental.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. What was he apologizing for, he didn’t know – for everything.

She smiled and stretched her arms. “Do you want me to…?”

“No, no. Go back to sleep,” he said softly.

“What about you?” She whispered, already settling back on the pillows.

“Don’t worry, I’m not tired,” he lied. He felt exhausted, but being there – with his son in arms and veiling Anairë’s sleep – was where he needed to be, at least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> háno (Q): brother  
> melmënya (Q): my love  
> meldanya (Q): my beloved  
> atto (Q): daddy  
> mamil (Q): mommy
> 
> **Names in Quenya:**
> 
> Macalaurë (Káno) - Maglor  
> Findaráto (Findo) - Finrod  
> Arakáno (also Káno) - Argon


	32. Crossing bridges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry that it took me this long to update the story, but life - and work and coronavirus and this whole 2020 situation - got in the way. But it's here now, and I intend to go back to posting more regularly.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing - and if you do, let me know! :D

The last time Nolofinwë rode in such a hurry to Formenos, two years ago, Nerdanel was giving birth to twins – something that was not unheard of, but still was rare – and his brother had cried out in despair through their bond: she had been weakened by a labor that had outlasted any other so far registered among the Eldar. His brother didn’t have to say it out loud: he was terrified of losing mother and children, Míriel’s past came back to hunt, haunt and maim, and Fëanáro was rendered helpless.

So Nolofinwë went. He rode fast, with only a few brief stops to let Rochallor rest, and arrived at the end of the first day. He kept asking Fëanáro for news throughout his journey, but his brother had been in no state of mind. He sent confusing images of a pallid, sweaty, and exhausted Nerdanel – and that was enough to frighten even him. It didn’t matter what happened under their sheets: Nolofinwë couldn’t conceive the idea of losing his sister-in-law, for he knew Fëanáro might never recover from that blow – not to mention the boys.

He had been sick worried for his nephews, and with reason. When he arrived in Formenos, they were all scooped up in Nelyafinwë’s bed, hunched, barely eating, tear-streaked faces pale and terrified. Their mother’s screams – the eldest told him later – then her silence and their father’s growing anxiousness were enough to put anyone on edge. Nolofinwë’s arrival had been timely: he and Mahtan shared tasks of taking hold of the kitchen and calming the boys’ tempers, while Norëliel stayed with her daughter. A few hours later, they heard Nerdanel’s last attempts. Then, a baby cried. Another scream, another baby yelling their way into the world – and they all let collective sighs of relief.

The mood had immediately lifted as soon as the news came that the three of them fared well. Nolofinwë remembered to this day the moment Fëanáro appeared in the reading room, where they had all perched, with two tiny packages in each arm. He looked dreadful, with purplish marks under tired eyes, hair a messy mane framing his thin face. But the elated glow lightened his eyes, and it was priceless – Nolofinwë knew it well. And the babies were precious, two little carrots with red sprouts coming out of their heads. 

They didn’t have much time to interact that day – nor the ones who followed it – because, as soon as everyone’s health was secured, Nolofinwë returned to the palace. That was a moment for his brother’s family to enjoy, and he had no business meddling, no matter how much Fëanáro had protested for him to stay. The boys had wanted that as well, and even Macalaurë, usually so distant, had begged that he spent at least a few days with them. For that plead alone, Nolofinwë was tempted to stay – if his skittish nephew had come to the point of begging for his presence, then it was truly needed. In the end, reason spoke louder, and he had left.

Now Nolofinwë rode like the wind for an entirely different reason – although his motives were as serious – and he was pushing Rochallor to the poor beast’s limits once again. He needed to see and speak to Fëanáro in person. The rumors he had heard were too scandalous and rebellious, even for his brother, and he would not risk the subject to be dealt with by letter, let alone mind-speak. 

One of his lords had walked into his study the day before and informed him of a rumor that spread among the common folk like fire in the hay. Crown Prince Fëanáro had visited some town up North and delivered a controversial speech that became the cause of much consternation among his peers.

Nolofinwë frowned at that news, for his brother had not told him of any visit to the North – not that he needed to. They didn’t feel obliged to share every step they took, but they shared it because they wanted to. What sounded absurd was the idea of Fëanáro going somewhere just to deliver a speech. No, but it could happen that his passionate brother had been caught up in an event that demanded some action – in his case, some words.

And the content of the speech… Nolofinwë pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Something about freedom – of speech, of mind and… of body.”

He remembered never being so disconcerted his entire life – not even when he discovered Fëanáro reciprocated his feelings, nothing came close to the sheer shock, the ringing in his ears and all the alarm bells sounding at the same time. What madness had taken his brother to say such things in public, Nolofinwë couldn’t conjure. One thing was to complain of his domestic life with his closest family – in that case, Nolofinwë and sometimes Arafinwë. The other was to spill their so well-kept secrets to all who wanted to hear.

Nolofinwë’s mind was plagued with horrific thoughts of this little act of treachery reaching the Valar’s ears and – worst – how would their father take it. Nolofinwë sighed again. Finwë would be cornered to take the reins of his unruly firstborn, who couldn’t just say those things without thinking, _without taking the Crown into consideration_ , the courtiers would likely say. And before their father set upon _him_ the task of publicly reprimanding his brother, Nolofinwë had ridden out. Anairë had been surprisingly comprehensive. But then, when it came to the Crown and its ruling princes, she knew better than to interfere.

It had also happened that, after that incident with Almawen finding him in Míriel’s old chambers, his wife had put some distance between them. She spent more and more time with her father’s family in Ilmarin, claiming she needed a lot of praying and guidance – and if that had startled Nolofinwë in the beginning, it came down to him that Anairë would talk to him first before throwing accusations behind his back. He could trust that, at least. As it was, he put the matter out of his mind, so busy as he was with his duties.

Nolofinwë crossed the gates of his brother’s dwellings and, at once, he saw one of the boys – by the height, probably Curufinwë the young – running inside the house calling for his eldest brother. Of course, Nolofinwë’s arrival wouldn’t be silent. Neither would he want it to be. He took the horse to the stables and met Tyelkormo there, grooming his own steed – a beautiful gray mare, gifted to him by Finwë for his twenty-fifth begetting day.

“Hi, Uncle,” he said, emotionless like Nolofinwë’s presence had been expected. An eerie feeling crept up his spine.

No, he was being silly. Tyelkormo was no more than a boy; he wouldn’t guess the reason for his haste or why Rochallor looked like he had just run one of Vána’s competitions.

“Hello, Turko,” he smiled nonchalantly, keeping his emotions closed behind his teeth. “Are you riding out?”

“No,” he pouted. “Atar won’t let me ride her yet. He says I must learn how to take proper care of her before.”

“That sounds like good advice to me,” he smiled, somehow at ease with the casual conversation, the anxious sense of urgency checked in. “That is how a good rider truly learns.”

Tyelkorko just nodded, perhaps resigned to the boring inheritance of waiting for the right time.

“Are you here to see amil? She’s inside with Ambarussar.”

“I will see her later,” and Nolofinwë meant it. “Is your father in the forges, as always?” When Tyelkormo simply nodded again, Nolofinwë passed by him and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. For a moment, Tyelkormo leaned on him and continued grooming his mare.

The insects buzzed back and forth across his head, excited with the Spring warmth and uncaring of Nolofinwë’s nervousness. The thicket swayed with the breeze, and as Nolofinwë crossed the garden to the forges, the wind rose, bringing the scent of pine and freshness. He opened the heavy iron doors only to find his brother’s workplace unusually empty. The place always bustled with apprentices and other smiths, but it was deserted. The door to Fëanáro’s study was shut, but Nolofinwë wasn’t tricked by its blatant attempt to keep other people out.

He crossed the forges with long strides and banged on the door more ferociously than he’d wished. He withdrew his hands and rubbed them together, aware that he couldn’t afford to make a scene where he was at an earshot of Fëanáro’s children. Maitimo was probably nearby. Nolofinwë sighed and tugged his brother across their bond, calling his attention from whatever project he was immersed in. Not a second later, the door opened and revealed Fëanáro’s stunning figure, his eyes bright as jewels.

Nolofinwë crossed the threshold without a word. Perhaps Fëanáro could guess the nature of this surprise visit, but his brother said nothing. He closed the door behind them, and Nolofinwë waited until they were face to face.

***

Their loud voices rang through the walls, calling Macalaurë’s attention. It had been a long time since last he heard one of his father’s heated discussions with Nolofinwë. Through the back window of Fëanáro’s forges, he could hear every word. He had come out to distract himself a little from his studies, but now he listened intently as his father and uncle exchanged barbs that made his skin crawl. Macalaurë hated when the people he loved argued like that, and there was nothing he could do – except, perhaps, stay out of their way.

Maitimo came through the garden behind him and saw Macalaurë glued to his spot, eyes very wide and unfocused. As soon as his eldest brother heard the reason for Macalaurë’s strange behavior, he came closer, offering comfort and sharing curiosity both.

“What is going on?” Maitimo asked in that low, mellifluous voice of his, tinted with concern.

Macalaurë shook his head in dismay. He had no idea why they were discussing – he had missed the first part, and now only angry remarks remained. After a few minutes of careful listening, Nelyafinwë stood up and approached the opened window.

“What are you doing?” Macalaurë asked urgently.

“I can’t hear anything!” Maitimo answered with a toothy grin.

“Nelyo! We are not supposed to be listening to any of it!” He waved his hand nervously for his brother to return to his side.

“But we are, so what’s the matter with listening properly for once?”

Macalaurë had no answer to that, so he clicked his tongue and followed his eldest. It was very unlike Maitimo to eavesdrop like that, but there certainly was a good reason behind it. Through the window, the brothers could see Fëanáro and Nolofinwë inside the small chamber, talking nervously with their hands and hissing words back and forth. Nolofinwë, generally calmer in his demeanor, had a red face and confronted his father head-on. Macalaurë’s brows shot up at the mere thought that there was someone, besides their grandfather, who could talk to Fëanáro like that. Nelyafinwë and Macalaurë exchanged a worried look, and they crouched under the windowsill silently.

“You cannot possibly say those things in public and expect people to understand it!”, Nolofinwë was saying, clearly trying to keep his voice down.

“How can they not understand? This concerns all of us!” Fëanáro had no such care, and his words reverberated through the stone walls.

“Yes, Fëanáro, and that’s why such disruptive ideas must be laid with caution! Not like-”

“Like what?” Fëanáro demanded.

“Insidiously!” Nolofinwë hissed low.

They heard, then, a loud thump. Their father had pinned Nolofinwë against the wooden cabinet, arm across his chest. “You know Father will suffer for your words, as will I,” Nolofinwë continued, breathing hard, meeting the challenge in Fëanáro’s eyes.

“Are you telling me I shouldn’t be fighting for this?” Fëanáro hissed dangerously, and Macalaurë saw Maitimo shivering by his side.

“That is not what I said,” Nolofinwë replied calmly.

“What it is, then, you are saying, little brother?” Despite Fëanáro’s feral smile, Nolofinwë didn’t even flinch, and something inside Macalaurë’s chest threatened to burst.

“You know perfectly well.”

“Oh, please... Enlighten me,” Fëanáro drawled.

“You cannot say those things frivolously! That is not the way, brother!” Nolofinwë’s patience was the stuff for legends, but it was clear that it was beginning to run thin.

“I don’t say _anything_ frivolously, gods be damned!” Fëanáro released him and started pacing the room like a wounded lion, eyes shining with that wild light that sometimes seemed to surpass that of the Trees. “I won’t listen as you tell me this wasn’t the right thing to do, Nolofinwë. Do not dare to diminish this subject!”

“It’s not diminishing it, damn you too, Fëanáro!” Nolofinwë stepped forward and faced his brother again, finally raising his voice in anger.

Macalaurë peeked his head above the windowsill only in time to see as Fëanáro reached a hand and grabbed the back of Nolofinwë’s head, bringing their foreheads together.

“This is the most important thing in my life. _This_ is all that matters to me. Our children, _us_!” Macalaurë distinctly saw Fëanáro move his hand to touch his chest and their uncle’s, making a bond. “Do not tell me you don’t feel the same.”

“You know I do,” Nolofinwë husked, not breaking eye-contact. “I am at your side, Fëanáro... Can’t you see that I need you by my side, as well?”

“I am at your side, _our_ side, how can you not see this? Everything I do is for us.” Fëanáro released him and shouted once more, taking both exasperated hands through his loose mane.

Nolofinwë groaned out loud. “When you do things like these, it really doesn’t seem like it!” He tried to walk away, but Fëanáro grabbed his arm and turned him around again.

“Don’t you ever give your back on me,” He growled.

A brief moment of silence passed, and what happened then made Macalaurë freeze in his spot. He gripped Nelyafinwë’s shoulder firmly, as both of them watched with wide eyes, as Fëanáro held Nolofinwë’s face between his hands and their mouths met as a clash of swords, hands roaming to caress faces, hair, chest. Macalaurë watched agape, as did his brother. He had known his father and half-uncle shared something unique, something he hadn’t so far even tried to decipher; so far, he had never seen them exchange more than affectionate touches, but seeing them, first hand, in the throes of passion... it was too much.

Macalaurë’s breath hitched, and his chest tightened. At once, too many feelings flooded him like the breaking of a dam: he pitied his mother – a clenching sensation in his gut that could have made him wretch – and what he saw was so wrong, and yet... So _beautiful_! They were both beautiful! Love sparkled all around them like a living thing, soaring high into the place where their chests joined, palpable shards of radiance brighter than a collision of two supernovas. 

Maitimo meant to stand up and run back to the house, but Macalaurë was rooted to the ground. His gaze was solely taken by the sight in front of him, and he stared at it, transfixed, a myriad of contradictive feelings revolving in his stomach: pain, hurt, desire, guilt, jealousy, curiosity… Maitimo took his forearm, but Macalaurë couldn’t tear his eyes away, even as he felt the tears bubbling up, and a terrible sadness took hold of him. All he wanted to do was curl up and drown, never having to face the feelings that had overwhelmed him for so long and that he now, finally, understood.

“Come away, Káno, I think we’ve seen enough,” his brother said gently.

From the window, they could still hear endearments and muttered words that, if Maitimo’s assumptions were correct, preceded something they wouldn’t want to be near to watch. But Macalaurë couldn’t move, too shocked to react, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Maitimo glanced briefly inside, afraid they would be caught spying, but Fëanáro and Nolofinwë were not even aware of their presence, so rapt they were in each other’s arms.

Macalaurë’s chest heaved as he watched Fëanáro ground against Nolofinwë’s body while he delivered open-mouthed kisses to his neck. Nolofinwë closed his eyes and threw back his head, exposing his throat in utter surrender, a hand sliding under Fëanáro’s tunic to part it and bare his naked shoulder. At last, Fëanáro said something in Nolofinwë’s ear, and he hummed with satisfaction.

“I don’t,” was the last thing they heard before Nolofinwë slipped a finger under Fëanáro’s chin and claimed his mouth on a lingering, passionate kiss once more.

At last, Maititmo managed to wrench his brother away and drag him back to the house. Macalaurë, still dumbfounded by what he had seen, could think of nothing else. How could his father and half-uncle do this? Unafraid of the consequences to the last straw... it was madness! And his mother...! Weren’t they ashamed of what might happen if she discovered? Today they had been caught by Fëanáro’s two eldest sons, and still were unaware! Macalaurë sat alone in his chambers, plucking his harp absently-minded, not quite knowing what to make of it...

Oh, no. He knew what he _wanted_ to make of it. But did he have the courage?

***

Nolofinwë left the forges still angered. They had somehow managed to talk, before and after sex, but he doubted he could put sense into his brother’s head. Of course, he understood Fëanáro’s disruptive ideas and agreed to most of them, but his brother’s way could easily get out of hand. Ever since the incident of being discovered by Almawen, Nolofinwë had been feeling uneasy, like a storm was brewing on the horizon and was only waiting to fall above their heads when least they expected it. And his brother didn’t feel the same! It was... unnerving.

He groaned inwardly. Not even through their bond they had reached an agreement – even if he was sure Fëanáro understood his reasons as well as he understood his brother’s. Nolofinwë knew why Fëanáro felt the need to vent out his opinions, frustration welling up inside him for keeping secrets and his own feelings hidden for so long. But that _definitely_ was not the way, and Nolofinwë didn’t know how in the bloody hells he would make his brother see it.

His feet and worried mind had taken him deep into the woods. He had claimed he needed to think of their next moves – and he had not lied, but there was more to it. Nolofinwë had to think, on his own, how he would handle his stubborn brother. He could hardly bring matters to their father, as it were, without giving out the nature of their relationship. No, that would never happen.

Nolofinwë stopped near a stream and bent down to lave his hands and face. The water was cool and refreshing, and he felt like bathing. He undressed and waded into the river, enjoying the merry lap of the water on his heated skin, washing away the eucalyptus scent that clung on him and enveloped him still. He sat back against a mossy rock, feeling the pebbles underneath him and the stream hitting his chest and abdomen soothingly.

He sighed and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the problem he had in his hands. But his attention kept being diverted, for the uneasiness crept back onto his spine, and he felt like he was being watched. He was unprotected. If a bear decided it wanted to fish and happened to find him there… Nolofinwë’s eyes cracked open, and he looked back, but there wasn’t anything nearby. The woods were quiet except for the lush sounds of Spring, and he exhaled. He was being ridiculous and paranoid.

However, the moment he closed his eyes again, there were the simultaneous sounds of a branch snapping and someone crying out loud. Nolofinwë sprung up, alarmed because there was only one person to whom that mellow voice could belong to. He felt disconcertingly vulnerable to be found like that by the one nephew who still side-eyed him with suspicion and, he thought, angry jealousy for monopolizing Fëanáro’s attention – even if Nolofinwë never wished to come between him and his sons.

But now Macalaurë laid on the ground, body curled in a ball, hands clutching at his right ankle. Nolofinwë’s eyes widen, and he rushed to his nephew’s side, covering his naked body with his outer robe and naught else.

“Káno!” He called, trying to raise Macalaurë’s head to look at his injuries better.

“No, stop!” Macalaurë spat, and Nolofinwë stilled his hands, alarmed.

“I’m sorry, where does it hurt? What happened?”

“N-no, it’s n-nothing,” the young man said through gritted teeth.

Nolofinwë’s brows shot up. Macalaurë’s face was contorted in pain, and he was pale, his forehead glistened with sweat. “Don’t be foolish,” he said gently. “Come here,” he reached out again and helped him sit up.

Macalaurë grimaced and extended his injured leg, sitting back against a tree trunk with visible effort. Nolofinwë reached down to lift his trousers, but Macalaurë recoiled with a strangled cry.

“No! Don’t-don’t touch me!”

Nolofinwë withdrew quickly, stricken by the words. He frowned and placed his hands on his knees, where Macalaurë could see them.

“I’m sorry, Káno. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. But it’s just the two of us out here, and you’re clearly in a lot of pain.”

“I’m-I’m not. It d-doesn’t hurt that m-much.”

Nolofinwë smiled. Macalaurë’s teeth started chattering against his will, and he trembled from head to toes.

“Káno, I know you don’t like me very much,” he began quietly. He had learned, from long ago, that being straightforward was the best way of navigating the fiery humor that governed the House of Fëanáro. His words had an immediate effect, for Macalaurë stilled like he was holding his breath. “And I know you may not want me around, but this… I really need you to let me take a look at your leg. I don’t need to touch it or any part of you, but I need to see how bad it is. Your father will never forgive me if he knew I didn’t insist. So, please.”

Macalaurë was not looking straight at Nolofinwë but rather at some point in front of him, but still, Nolofinwë could see his unfocused gaze; and if before he seemed to have stopped breathing, now breath fluttered on his chest like a bird wanting to escape its cage. Very slowly, Macalaurë lifted the breeches from his ankle, trying not to hiss when the fabric brushed the bruised skin.

It looked bad – clearly sprained, purplish and green spots already blossoming, and it was twice its normal size. Nolofinwë sighed.

“It seems to be broken, but I can’t be sure. We need to go back to the house and call for a healer.”

“No!” Macalaurë reached out and grabbed the hem of his robe. “N-no, p-please!” He muttered again. “Atar will be furious with me because I wasn’t supposed to be here! I should be helping Curufinwë with his lessons, but then I-I…” and he faltered, eyes darting furiously, looking for the right words.

“It’s alright, Káno,” Nolofinwë whispered, and was a little taken aback when Macalaurë’s pleading eyes snapped back to him, bright as molten mercury. “It’s alright, I can talk to Fëanáro on your behalf, if you want,” he tentatively patted Macalaurë’s knee, and was glad when his nephew merely nodded, not noticing the brief touch.

Nolofinwë smiled. “Can you stand up?”

Macalaurë licked his lips and nodded, shifting his weight so he could stand on the other leg, but he collapsed with a cry of pain and a curse. 

“You… I need help,” Macalaurë said, finally admitting defeat.

Nolofinwë said nothing but caught under his nephew’s armpit and curled his other hand behind his knees, hauling him up as if Macalaurë weighed nothing. It was no use asking if his nephew trusted him enough or was willing to let him do this. He was going to do it anyway – there was not a chance he would leave Macalaurë behind and go find help. The young man looked up at him in astonishment, then buried his head on his chest and shuddered violently.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” he said, trying to soothe the shivering figure in his arms.

Without waiting to retrieve the rest of his clothing or boots, Nolofinwë slowly treaded his way back to the house. It took him a good hour, a lot of muscle exertion and uncomfortable feet, but when they finally got there, Macalaurë had stopped shaking. He had left a large wet spot on his loosely closed robes. Nolofinwë didn’t know why Macalaurë had cried, but something inside him said it was not because of the injury. He didn’t address it, however. He took his nephew inside, and, as soon as he entered, Carnistir – who had been studying at the kitchen table – sprang up and started asking questions. Once he saw Macalaurë’s ankle, he blanched.

“It’s nothing, little one. I just needed some help walking,” Macalaurë said weakly, voice still strained with pain, as he ran a hand over his brother’s hair.

“Moryo, go fetch your parents, will you?” Nolofinwë said, puffing a little as he went up the stairs, taking care not to bang Macalaurë’s extremities into the doorjambs.

“Which one?”

“The closest one! We need a healer.”

As Moryo ran to his mother’s workshop, crying “amil, amil!”, Nolofinwë took Macalaurë to his bed and gently laid him down. Not a second too soon, for his other nephews came to their brother’s side all at once in their usual ado, and Nelyafinwë crossed to the room to retrieve more pillows. Sweat ran down Nolofinwë’s forehead and back, but the relieved look on Macalaurë’s face made up for everything. Nolofinwë drew in a few long breaths to catch up with his racing heart, and two heartbeats later, Nerdanel rushed inside the room.

“What happened?” Her panicked eyes darted from him to Macalaurë.

“Hello, Nerdanel,” he said with a small smile – he still hadn’t come to greet her. “He tripped, and I think his ankle might be broken.”

She nodded nervously, sitting down by Macalaurë’s side. “Don’t worry, my love. Your brother went to fetch Nurië. He shall be here at any time.”

Only then, Nolofinwë realized Tyelkormo wasn’t gathered around Macalaurë’s sickbed. He smiled faintly, wondering what would Fëanáro say when he found out the boy had probably taken his birthday mare – he could almost hear his silver-haired nephew arguing that his mother had ordered him to, and Fëanáro wouldn’t be able to gainsay her, not when his secondborn needed aid. He chuckled at that and left the chamber quietly. He would wait for the healer somewhere else.

His tired feet took him to the reading room downstairs; he threw himself on an armchair and almost immediately dozed off. When he opened his eyes again, Fëanáro sat on the armrest and smiled down at him. Nolofinwë leaned his head on his brother’s stomach and kissed it.

“How is Macalaurë?” He asked drowsily.

“Asleep and on his way to mending, thanks to you,” Fëanáro’s long fingers sifted through his hair the way he liked doing.

“Well, I couldn’t do less. He fell right by my side me!”

“He told me what happened. What he didn’t say, however, is why are you half-naked, my beautiful brother.”

Nolofinwë looked up and saw the smirk on Fëanáro’s face. He snorted. “Oh, gods… Nerdanel must think I am the most depraved Elf in Valinor,” he groaned and buried his head on Fëanáro’s stomach once more.

“No, melmënya, I come first on that list.”

Their silence lasted a heartbeat, then they shared quiet laughter. 

“You probably do,” Nolofinwë said with a smile, voice muffled. They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Fëanáro’s hands never left his hair, and now they slid down his neck and back, massaging muscles Nolofinwë didn’t realize were sore.

“I am sorry, Nolvo. For before. You know how much I hate when we part in anger, and it disturbs me deeply that this was the first time it happened since…”

“I know,” Nolofinwë looked up into his brother’s stunning features, shining softly with the golden light that poured in from the window. “I am sorry too. I shouldn’t have spoken to you thus.”

Fëanáro merely waved his free hand. “What a pair we make…” he chuckled and sighed. “But you must see, brother, that all I do is for us and-”

“Please, Fëanáro, do not start it again,” Nolofinwë took his hand and kissed his palm. “Not here. Let us just… agree to disagree about this. We both want the same thing, it’s obvious, but we have different approaches. And that’s alright. I think,” he added, smiling, and Fëanáro laughed.

“Yes, well… it will not be the first time we disagreed.”

“Plus, what would be the fun of making up if we didn’t argue from time to time?”

“So, that’s why you argue with me so fiercely, little brother?” Fëanáro bent down and pressed a soft kiss on his lips.

Nolofinwë withdrew with a start and looked at the open door, wide eyes and bated breath. When he saw they were not spied upon, he let out a heavy sigh.

“Varda’s tits, Fëanáro! If you can’t be careful for yourself, do it for our children and for me? Please?” He pleaded.

Fëanáro made a face. “I thought you said we weren’t starting this again.” Nolofinwë sent through their bond all the love and worry he could muster, and Fëanáro’s face softened. He sighed and said: “Fine, I will try to be more careful with the things I do and say, but I cannot really promise to act against my own beliefs, Nolvo. You can’t ask that of me!”

“Alright, alright…!” Nolofinwë kissed Fëanáro’s hand again. “Let us just sit here quietly, shall we? I would like to see Macalaurë before I go.”

“Go?” Fëanáro sat up straight, making Nolofinwë’s head fall from his lap. “I thought you would stay at least for the night!”

“I… I don’t know if it’s a good idea. Macalaurë seemed very uncomfortable in my presence, and I really don’t want to impose on you and Nerdanel and the twins…”

“Ah, Nolvo, you do have the mania of being ridiculously stiff sometimes,” Fëanáro grinned. “You must have known that coming to me, I wouldn’t let you slip away so easily.”

Nolofinwë smiled. “For the night, then.”

***

They both fell asleep in that position, Fëanáro lying back against the backrest, and Nolofinwë with his head on his brother’s shoulder. It was already dark when Nolofinwë was woken up by a heavy stumping of a single foot in the ground. He opened his eyes and saw Macalaurë’s back leaving the reading room where they slept.

“Káno?” He whispered, and his nephew whirled to face him, alarmed to be caught sneaking in. Fëanáro didn’t move. “What are you doing out of bed? You should be resting your leg,” his voice was hoarse from sleep, and it sounded harsher than he’d intended. Macalaurë lowered his eyes and pressed his lips together. Nolofinwë cursed himself inwardly and tried again, more softly. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes,” he blurted out. “I also need water, and there was no one near and I… I came to thank you,” he forced himself to look steadily into Nolofinwë’s eyes. “Despite my stubbornness, you took care of me,” and he flushed so intensely that Nolofinwë thought he would faint with the sudden rush of blood.

“Of course,” Nolofinwë smiled. It was a weird feeling to be under such a frightful gaze like he was the monster that haunted Macalaurë’s nightmares. “I care for you like you were my own. You must know this.”

Macalaurë closed his eyes briefly and let out a ragged sigh. “I know,” he added with a nod and swayed forward. Nolofinwë sprung up and ran to his side, catching him before he fell. Macalaurë leaned heavily on Nolofinwë, clutching the robe on his back with a firm grip, and ran a hand over his face, seemingly still exhausted with the whole experience.

“You do justice to the stubbornness of your family,” Nolofinwë smirked. “You shouldn’t have come down just to thank me, though. Do you need help to go back to your chambers?”

Macalaurë shook his head. “Could you please bring me the water? I think I can manage going back by myself.”

Nolofinwë smiled with relief and went for a pitcher and a glass, while Macalaurë hopped the stairs back up. When he entered Macalaurë’s chambers, he was already lying down with his injured leg on a pile of pillows. He placed the pitcher on Macalaurë’s night table and laid a careful hand on his nephew’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. Macalaurë’s hand flew up and caught his, clasping firmly, and Nolofinwë smiled broadly at that simple gesture of affection. He bent down, kissed the top of Macalaurëss head, and left quietly, closing the door behind him. 

Nolofinwë returned to the reading chambers. Fëanáro’s eyes fell into his immediately, and he knew his brother had watched the exchange. He breathed out and lowered his eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. It seemed that he was always trying to make things right with this particular nephew and never quite getting there. Nevertheless, today they had crossed a bridge – by all means, not all of them – but Nolofinwë felt like something had changed. Macalaurë might not be as comfortable with him as his other nephews were, but it was a start.

Maybe, in the future, they could build something more solid from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, I have gone back to chapters 18, 19, 20 and 25 and edited Fëanor and Maedhros' relationship dynamics. I was not satisfied with the plot hole it was forming in my head, so I decided to change lots of things to make the story more fluid and less expositive. Basically, the whole thing that was going on is not anymore (maybe it will be explored later in a future sequel). Some chapters suffered more editing than others. Many thanks to Encairion and Spiced Wine for the words of advice and concrit (and encouragement, as usual) <3


	33. The meaning of trust

Fëanáro turned the stone in his hands, carefully feeling the roundness of its shape, observing the quality of the color that swirled – black smoke, almost as green as the darkest parts of the forest or a thunderous night sky, deep and rich. Dark-green, like his Turko’s eyes. Yes, it seemed the energy rippled across its smooth surface with more than just his touch – he was sure Maitimo’s study on physics regarding the thin metal bending would hold. It was now complete, and Fëanáro gave a triumphant smile.

How long has it been since he first started experimenting with these alloys? Maitimo hadn’t been of age – and now, in a matter of days, his Káno was about to reach adulthood. It seemed like only yesterday that Fëanáro had bent his mind to this project, and now he finally saw it come to fruition. A feeling of accomplishment overflowed him – but more than that. He was delivering this new creation back to the world, repayment for the talent the One had bestowed within him. They may not like it, criticize him for his recklessness for always pushing forward – always pushing to reach the places no Elf had ever gone. Yet here he was once again: breaking the barriers of what they had thought possible. Exceeding every expectation.

Not even Nolofinwë was entirely convinced the experiment might turn out well this time. No, Fëanáro was being unfair with his brother. Nolofinwë believed him like no other – it was, in fact, because of the bond they shared this experiment had finally found its purpose (what he had begun, so long ago, was merely a children’s play when faced with the true possibilities!). It had been ósanwë that had kindled in Fëanáro the idea of trying to replicate mind-to-mind speak into something more… palpable. Into an object. 

It had taken him years to master the technique, the materials, and the amount of Power necessary to allow communication between two people of strong mind – at least he _thought_ he had finally understood it. And Nolofinwë was a vital part of it – of himself. Not only did his brother fueled him with unrelenting encouragement and support and unmeasurable love at all times, but it was that partnership between them that allowed Fëanáro to pour so much of himself into the experiments. He knew Nolofinwë was always there, backing him up. He _knew_ Nolofinwë would support him if he swayed. 

(He gently tugged his end of the bond – for it was very early in the morning – and was not wholly surprised to receive an answer to his call. His brother scolded him for being obsessed with his work, but he was no better: when he wrote a treaty or his father’s public speeches, Nolofinwë often worked until past acceptable hours. Fëanáro hoped his grin would reach his brother’s mind in whatever he was doing).

His sons were all enthusiasts of his work – all but two, who were yet too little to understand (and manipulate) the thrill of the creative process. The older knew, of course, even if they were so reluctant to stand by his side at the forges. Maitimo had talent but no interest; Macalaurë had an interest, but he needed honing he was not willing to share – he would never give up on his music to sweat some minor accomplishment on stone or metal. It was enough he already built his own instruments. 

Fëanáro held the heavy sphere up, and his reflection huffed with laughter. It was such an irony that the least inclined to any handicraft like this was the one whose eyes had inspired the color for it. He wondered if this small token of devotion would make Turkafinwë more inclined to join him, although he could guess the answer – it would always be no. His third born was much more preoccupied with what happened above ground to take much care for the metals hiding beneath it. His little bird-talker would be the best hunter there ever was – well, perhaps except Oromë. Turko had been spending increasingly more time with the Vala every year. It was like they were inseparable!

(Something nagged in the back of Fëanáro’s mind, but it was quickly swept away: he couldn’t think of treachery, betrayal… Turko always came home happy as one could be, with a grin that stretched his beautiful face into an alarming size… still, Fëanáro’s mind couldn’t help wondering _why_ he was happier at the Vala’s side than at home with him? What was the Vala doing to his boy?).

As for Carnistir... Fëanáro would have to look out for that one. He was of a solitary nature, more than any other of his sons. His lonesome experiments sometimes took him deep into the woods without warning, not even to his brothers, and he had been missing for days more often than Fëanáro’s heart could take. He knew it would only be a matter of time before Moryo did it again, but at least they were prepared now: he worked in a small workshop Fëanáro had built for him on the back of the forges – and Carnistir had to cross the entire place to get out so, once he did, they would hope Kurvo would notice and follow him, as Fëanáro had asked him to.

And the twins... a broad grin spread on his face. They were so adorable, so clever, and were growing so fast! Fëanáro was so proud of his boys. Whenever he was with them, he would never let an opportunity to show how much he loved them pass. He would kiss, hug, and squeeze them until they struggled away from his embrace – and some of them still never did! He still couldn’t believe how lucky he was with the most precious gifts Eru had given him!

Fëanáro shook his head minutely and focused back at the sphere. The surface was still cold under his touch, and he wondered… no, enough wondering. It was time to test it. Maitimo and Macalaurë’s suppositions and formulas _would_ hold. He had designed it to be a communication method, and the other person needed to have another so they could speak. But even before it was finished, Fëanáro knew he could do so much more with it. 

Fëanáro took the object between both hands and focused his mind on the one person who shared the strongest ósanwë link with him. He knew, too, this was essential. 

A memory of the last time he had seen his brother, clad all in blue and silver, danced in his mind’s eye.

_Nolofinwë…_

His thought seemed to have whispered back at him, and as the thin wisps whirled ever faster inside the stone, he felt a faint throb in his temple. Slowly, but gradually, Nolofinwë’s face became more visible. Dimly at first, almost as if he was behind a foggy veil until his brother’s image occupied the whole surface. Nolofinwë sat in the library of the palace, and his four children sat around him. Irissë was closer, and so her image was not as blurred as the others’, but Fëanáro could see them all there. She wore a white dress and had a book in her hands, and her lips were moving; she was reading, but no sound came.

Nolofinwë was oblivious of Fëanáro’s sudden barging in, of course, and listened to his daughter with a small, content smile on his face, occasionally sipping from a glass of wine. Fëanáro didn’t remember ever seeing that scene, so this was evidently not a memory, but something he was seeing for the first time as it unfolded in front of his eyes! The temptation to call his brother through their bond was enormous, but he refrained it. It was too amusing to watch him like this, without being noticed – and Nolofinwë was entrancing! Beautiful, with a black and silver tunic, his liquid raven hair slipping from his braids and framing his chiseled face... Fëanáro watched for what felt like hours, although he knew mere minutes might have gone by.

He closed his eyes, feeling love shimmering through their bond – he missed Nolofinwë so acutely it _ached –_ and when he opened them, the image inside the sphere was gone. Fëanáro sighed and put it down. So far, it had worked splendidly. He still needed to test it with someone else on the other side, holding another stone – but he will do that later. He needed his eloquent Maitimo to say if the name he had come up with was good enough.

Curufinwë would be awed with the results, and Fëanáro chuckled softly. His fourth-born had spent the whole day there with him, sharing the space, the gloves and aprons and tools… Kurvo was as focused as Fëanáro himself – he thought wryly – and nothing could disturb his concentration once he set on a task. Fëanáro couldn’t be more proud of how his little boy’s skills grew day by day. He had a lot of natural talent, but more than that, he was so eager and curious about everything! That also reminded him of himself. 

And, of course, there was the matter of his Power – yes, this was more than a mere ability, as was Turko’s Power to talk the language of animals, as Macalaurë’s Power for Song! He didn’t care how heretic he sounded to his wife or anybody else; his boys had _Power_ no other Elf had! And since he had discovered how Kurvo saw the world a few years ago, it took him considerably little time to understand that he, in his uniqueness, saw geometrical shapes that an ordinary eye would not. So building and constructing was something that came naturally to him. But as Kurvo grew, so did his Power improved, and Fëanáro had yet to fully uncover its extent.

Fëanáro returned his attention to the stone he still held. He wanted Kurvo to be here to witness and learn how to pour words of Power into an object such as this, but it was time for Nerdanel’s lessons in her workshop – even though he knew that, if he called, Kurvo would forget everything else and would come running. Fëanáro smiled, satisfied. It occurred to him that this invention, being so much more than it was, had to be shared and not only with his family. There was one person in particular who deserved a chance of looking back and returning to their land of origin – even if it was solely through visions.

His old tutor not only would be amazed, as he always was of Fëanáro, but this seeing-stone might actually help him. If they could look at the lands of their ancestors, in Endórë, find Cuiviénen… perhaps Rúmil could find news of his old lover, what happened to him and where he was now. Yes, Rúmil deserved to know; he _deserved_ all of the truth, whatever it may be. If the Valar didn’t want to let him know, Fëanáro would.

He finally wrapped his creation on a cloth and put it away – he would make a surprise for the boys that evening, and they could finish testing it together. Fëanáro took off his worn working clothes and retreated to the chamber annexed with his workshop. Nolofinwë’s study was open, and he could see some of the things his brother had left the last time he had been there: a special quill that Fëanáro had gifted him for his begetting day, some books of lore he had taken from their library in Formenos – most about the Great Journey and their first laws – and some clothes.

A furred cloak hung on the back of his tall chair. It was colder in the North, and sometimes Nolofinwë had to use a double layer of clothing to get warm, even if he was surrounded by the fires of the forges. Fëanáro felt his lips tug up, even as he felt more nostalgic than he should – it had not been a month since they had last seen each other. He took the cloak and brought it to his nose; it still held the sweet scent of his brother’s skin and the lavender soap he favored. Not a month, and Fëanáro already missed him like it had been a year…

***

A gust of wind came through the open window in his chambers, carrying a whiff of the forest, and a sense of dislocation hit Fëanáro like a wall, blowing his braided hair back. He frowned and dropped the cloak. A familiar ruffle of leaves, the scent of moss and fresh-cut grass… he heard a horse neighing in the distance, and all other horses on the stables answered it happily, like servants to their lord. Like old friends. Fëanáro straightened his shoulders, picking up the little noises that drifted off to his workshop. He heard Maitimo’s mellow voice speaking and greeting whoever it was – although Fëanáro had a very good guess of who it might be. And he wondered, not without a sense of wariness, what _he_ could possibly be doing here…

Before tugging their bond and alarming Nolofinwë unnecessarily, Fëanáro went out. As soon as he laid eyes at the porch, he saw all of his sons around Turkafinwë, who was returning home after spending a week hunting in the forest nearest to Formenos – Fëanáro had previously agreed that he could go, but with the condition that it had to be close to home. Just in case.

The Vala smiled at them, petting their hands gently like someone would a dog. He had diminished his form like he had done that day in the woods, but he was still more than a head taller than Maitimo. Fur sprang from his shoulders, and feathers grew in his elbows. Nerdanel, with one twin in each hand, was delighted with the unexpected visit – a little flustered, perhaps, with the sudden appearance of a Vala on their doorstep.

As Fëanáro approached, pieces of conversation drifted his way.

“… such a pleasant surprise, Lord?” Nerdanel asked with a cheerful tone that betrayed the tiredness that fogged her eyes and the hard lines on her mouth. 

Since the twins’ birth, her exhaustion hadn’t lessened, and Fëanáro still worried, a mix of pity and panic. He came closer to his huddled family and was enveloped on both sides by his children.

“I came to escort Turkafinwë Fëanárion back to his home, but also to speak to thee, daughter of Mahtan, and to thy husband,” Oromë finished the sentence with his eyes shifting to find Fëanáro’s.

He tensed his shoulders, remembering perfectly well how Oromë had sworn to protect his and Nolofinwë’s secret. What could possibly be this, then? He wouldn’t have the audacity of turning against them now, like this… would he? A hand of ice slipped down Fëanáro’s stomach at that thought. It made sense. What better way to teach them a lesson than sending the one whom they had trusted to reveal their secret and ruin their lives? Oromë was just another pawn in their chessboard. But why now?

Fëanáro’s mind was starting to reel with the possibilities until a tenderness brushed his fëa, and he was flooded with reassurances, with small words of reason and wisdom. Nolofinwë had sensed his distress from afar. And he was right, of course. Fëanáro breathed, agreeing with what his brother hinted. Manwë could be many things, but treacherous was not one of those. If the king of the Valar wanted something done, Fëanáro was almost sure he would do it himself or send the one he trusted most, his own herald. Oromë could be a pawn, but an unwilling one – just like the rest of them.

Oromë’s merry laughter brought him back to the present. He and Nerdanel had been talking animatedly, he realized, while their children listened. Maitimo shifted in his feet, a little uncomfortable – perhaps the only one who truly understood the implications of such a visit – while the rest seemed curious. Turkafinwë was the only one with a grin so wide Fëanáro wondered that his third-born was up to something.

“What do you wish to speak of?” He asked non too gently, but Oromë matched Turko’s excited grin.

“I have many times found and accompanied thy sons in the woods, and one of them has requested my guidance. So far, I have given it to him freely, but perhaps proper training is required. Thus, I have suggested it to him,” the Vala said unceremoniously. So this was it. Fëanáro couldn’t help the wave of jealousy and possessiveness that crashed over him. “Unless, of course, thou objectest, Curufinwë,” Oromë bowed his head in a show of respect that surprised Fëanáro even more.

“Oh, please, Lord, never mind my husband’s manners! Come inside and let us talk. May I serve you some tea?”

“That would be pleasant. I thank thee,” he smiled, following Nerdanel to the kitchen. 

The boys scattered quickly, going back to their studies and activities. Except for Turkafinwë. The young man stared at him with wide, expectant eyes. Fëanáro glared at his third born. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were interested in being tutored by Oromë, Tyelko?”

“I don’t know, atto… I didn’t… really think of asking you,” he said with a small voice. His smile faltered, and he lowered his gaze.

“Your own father! You didn’t _think_ of asking me!” Fëanáro scowled, exasperated. “What am I to do with you, little rebel?” His voice softened, and Turkafinwë took advantage of it.

“So, will you let me?” He asked, eyes shining brightly.

The very idea was horrifying. Hunting from time to time was one thing. Sending one of his boys with a Vala, something else entirely. That was definitely not how he had envisioned any of them growing up to reach maturity. What would happen to him? Would Oromë fill his head with ideas about his brethren and make Turko turn his back on his family? Would the Valar place their attention on his son, instead? A violent shiver took him. He felt a warm hand taking his, caressing him until Turko was leaning completely against his chest – the silver head almost reached his shoulders. Fëanáro embraced his third-born tightly.

“I thought you liked my lessons.”

“I do!” Turkafinwë withdrew with a jerk. “But it’s… different! Oromë _is_ the woods he lives in! The whole forest answers him in a way it wouldn’t answer an Eldar. Not even you,” he muttered those last three words.

“We will see.” And at Turkafinwë’s hopeful expression, he added. “I haven’t agreed yet. First, I need to know what he has to say. And no, you can’t come along,” he replied once he saw the question form on Turko’s open mouth. 

“You can trust him, atar! I trust him with my life, and so should you!”

Fëanáro blinked at Turkafinwë in shock. “Should I? Should I trust them when they forced my mind and tried to dissuade me from being who I am? Should I trust _your_ life, the lives of your brothers, in the hands of those who call themselves our guardians, but treat us like prisoners?” He all but shouted the last words.

Turkafinwë’s eyes widened. “Stop being so paranoid! We are different, and I trust Oromë! If you don’t let me, I will go anyway! I will sneak out during the night, and I won’t come back until I’ve learned from him everything I can!” Turkafinwë shouted back, tears welling in his green eyes.

Before Fëanáro could reply, the young man turned on his heels and ran to the edge of the forest. 

“Turko!” He cried, but his son didn’t turn back. 

Fëanáro exhaled noisily. Turkafinwë was young – in the peek of his adolescence – and perhaps the whole ordeal he had with the Valar had never even crossed his mind. Fëanáro didn’t speak openly to them about his relationship with Nolofinwë – neither did they ask – and he wasn’t sure about how much his children remembered from his previous experiences with the Valar. Or, maybe, this was something his third-born simply didn’t understand yet, so Fëanáro couldn’t exactly blame him for his anger… 

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed once more. He had not had these temperament problems with Maitimo nor Macalaurë – the former had patience like his uncle’s, and the latter could be as passionate as Fëanáro was when it comes to the things that mattered to him – like his music – but he was a sweet, gentle soul, not a raging one. Ah, yes, Tyelkormo… his amilessë suited him too well. What a temper!

Fëanáro considered going after him, but he knew they would not reach an agreement while his son was angry. He needed to talk to Oromë first – something he had not done since the Vala had walked on him and Nolofinwë so many years ago. He gave in to the urge to share what was happening with his brother, so he let the message slip through their bond and felt Nolofinwë’s immediate awareness. His brother didn’t say anything about Turko – he rarely did, not when it came to the children’s future or education, and never without being asked directly – but he knew he had Nolofinwë’s attention. 

_Oromë is here. Claims he is here to talk about Turko. Have you had any news?_ He asked.

 _No_ , his brother replied at the same moment. _Nothing has changed. I have received no words, and neither has Father. Maybe it is what it is._

 _Maybe,_ but Fëanáro was still apprehensive. _Keep your eyes open, and your mind shut. I will let you know when he is gone_.

Fëanáro all but saw Nolofinwë’s nod, and their bond was closed tightly around his soul. If Oromë – or anyone else – wanted to pry, they would fall flat on their faces. 

Determined, he went back inside and found Nerdanel and Oromë speaking quietly. They both sat at the table, and even in his reduced form, the Vala was still impressive: tall and lean like a stag, strong like an ox. Wild and dangerous like a wolf. Their eyes met and held, and Fëanáro searched for the lies in them – he knew he would find none, but he had to try anyway. He felt the same he once had: a pull as if Oromë himself wanted to embrace him with his gaze.

The Vala smiled, then, kindly and comprehensively. _I am by thy side_ , he heard the whisper in his mind, and Fëanáro couldn’t tell if it was a memory or something that was being said now. _It has been a long time since we last saw one another, Son of Finwë_ . Fëanáro heard the voice like rustling leaves and knew it was not a memory. _I had hoped we would meet_ _soon_.

Fëanáro had forgotten how it was to feel the intense stare of a Vala upon him. Oromë’s blown-wide light-green pupils that looked like nothing else Fëanáro had seen were brimmed with kindness, and he relaxed his muscles instinctively like his body knew better than his brain – which kept telling him that Oromë must have some _other_ reason to have come to Formenos. They held the stare for a long while, both assessing and analyzing the other. The Vala looked, now, as fatherly – and as wild – as he did before.

Fëanáro lost track of how long he was drawn into Oromë’s unearthly gaze, but the spell was instantly broken when Nerdanel cleaned her throat. “Sit with us, Fëanáro. Lord Oromë wishes to speak about Tyelko.”

Fëanáro blinked rapidly and remembered where he was, still standing at the door.

“Please… just Oromë,” he rumbled humbly.

“Oromë, then,” she blushed and smiled. “Come, Fëanáro. We were waiting for you.”

“Yes, of course,” he muttered and sat down in his place at the head of the table.

“Please, Lo… Oromë,” she flushed again, “tell us. What is the matter with Tyelkormo? I would never wish for him to be a burden-”

Oromë raised his hand, and Nerdanel silenced at once. Fëanáro set his jaws and pursed his lips in disgust for such suzerain display and submissive compliance. 

“Thy son will never be a burden,” the Vala smiled at her. “In fact, it is why I have come. Turkafinwë has always been a most diligent apprentice. He is eager and curious. He listens and learns quicker than any other Eldar I’ve encountered, even those who are older than him. He has extraordinary instinct and, given time and proper instruction, will become an exceptional hunter. Furthermore, coming from both of thee, exceptional among thy people, his request is only natural.”

Nerdanel lowered her head with a little laughter, but Fëanáro was unimpressed. The memory of his last day on Aulë’s forges, the same manner of speech, was still very much vivid in his mind. 

“And there is his Power,” Fëanáro drawled deliberately.

He knew he was unfairly sarcastic and venomous, comparing his son’s Powers to those of the Lords of Aman, but he couldn’t help himself. It was nothing but the truth. Nerdanel’s breath hitched, but she said nothing – and this was pretty much the indication that something had changed. He glanced briefly at her weary expression, knowing that if she hadn’t been so tired, she would have snapped at him already. Oromë’s eyes also shifted to him, and something flashed behind them. 

“Aye. Turkafinwë is twice blessed: once with life, and once again with the ability to speak the animal-tongue.” 

Was the Vala aware of his provocation and chose not to take offense? Could they be trying to look inside his mind right now? Fëanáro felt the pull of Oromë’s eyes again, kind and soothing as ever, and forced his mind to not be enspelled by false veneer.

“What, then? Will you take him to your halls and teach him the way of the Valar?” He challenged, failing to refrain his own temper.

Oromë gave a tight smile and lowered his gaze for the first time, awkwardly; Fëanáro was utterly disconcerted. The other’s alienness was visible in every line of his body – but it broke Fëanáro’s logic when Oromë could, simultaneously, reflect such human emotions. Was that a façade to deal with the Elves, or was it real? Could they really _feel_?

“The ways of my brethren and mine are not the same,” Oromë replied quietly, still staring at the mug in his hands – disturbingly vulnerable. “I will teach Turkafinwë how to excel in his abilities and to be the best he can be. Thou art right,” he looked up straight into Fëanáro’s eyes. “I am of not of Arda, yet I helped in its making. I will teach him things no one else can.”

Fëanáro’s breath stopped. He had not expected Oromë to feel... what? Resented for not being one of _them_? A part of his heart melted without his want. 

“What kind of things?” He asked, equally quiet, not able to contain his curiosity. 

Oromë smiled. “The way of all beasts. Their strengths and weaknesses. How to best them, whether in hunt or in cleverness. He _will_ be thy best hunter. I vouch for it.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, and it seemed to Fëanáro that Oromë wanted to say more, but couldn’t make himself to decide what – that, or he was being held back by someone else. Before he could say anything, Nerdanel stood up, and the screech of the chair on the ground made them both jump in their seats, though Oromë disguised it well.

“Well, then! It is settled,” Nerdanel piped in happily, unaware of their intense exchange but perhaps sensing that Fëanáro would want a word in private with the Vala. She was right; he did. “I cannot say how grateful and pleased I am, my… Oromë… sorry,” she blushed and chuckled like a little girl, “that you have chosen my son as your pupil. It is a great honor to our family.” She bowed politely, as one did for a Valar, and Oromë dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Macalaurë was baking an apple pie. I will see if everything is alright,” she added with an amused glance to Fëanáro and went to the oven to check on whatever their second-born had been experimenting with.

Fëanáro snorted. A pie from Macalaurë…? Oh, well, it could be worse... it could be Moryo’s. As soon as they were left alone at the table, their eyes met again, like two irresistible forces of nature.

“Let us walk,” he said and also stood up, leading the way to the garden. Once they were far away from any ears, he stopped in his tracks and accessed the Vala under Laurelin’s light. 

“What are you not telling me, Oromë?” Fëanáro said in perfect Valarin. 

It had been a long time since he had studied that language, but he still remembered it was not fit to be spoken by non-Ainur. He also remembered how he would feel sick afterward, his head dizzy and throat burning as if he had eaten poison. He would, no doubt, feel the after-effects today, but he could see no way of approaching the subject they were about to if not by using it. If Maitimo was around, he would understand the conversation, but Fëanáro was not worried – there was nothing else to hide from his firstborn.

Oromë’s face was stricken with astonishment. It was the first time he heard the language of his people from the lips of an Eldar. Fëanáro hadn’t been the first to learn it – but he _had_ been the first to dominate it completely. Once he recovered from the shock, he gave a small laugh. 

“Do I need to tell thee more, young Curufinwë?” He said with his usual merry tone.

“Why are you really here?” Fëanáro finally asked what had been bothering him since he sensed the Valar’s presence.

The Vala’s smile faltered, and he sighed – another attitude too human to be rehearsed. “I have worried for thee, and for thy brother.” His voice was low, and no one could possibly have heard, let alone understand him, but still, Fëanáro tensed, and a shiver ran down his spine. “I had no news since last we saw, and the festivities that bring our species together are not the best of times for such inquiries.”

“And my house is?” He hissed back, leaning forward as if he wanted to strangle the Vala. Perhaps he did.

“I lament,” Oromë cocked his head like an owl. “I admit I am not an expert in Eldarin behavior as some of my brethren, but I thought… this is where thou feltest the most safe.”

Fëanáro searched in fury those strange eyes. _Experts in the Eldars? Since when?_ He wanted to jump at the Vala’s neck, but nothing in Oromë’s gaze justified Fëanáro’s suspicion. There was only that eerie vulnerability. He exhaled loudly, almost a groan, and dropped his shoulders. The Vala was not wrong: one’s house _was_ one’s greatest sanctuary. 

“It is,” he said, at last, feeling somehow defeated. 

Oromë nodded. “Turkafinwë is as talented as thou art, and I want him to rise above the expectations. But more than that,” his voice dropped to a soft whisper like the wind upon the canopy of trees, “I will keep him safe. I have vowed that to thee once, Curufinwë, and I came to renew those vows.”

It was Fëanáro’s turn to be shocked, brows disappearing in his hairline; he ignored the praise to himself, but that the Vala would treat one of his sons like his own was… even more disconcerting. His mind reeled with that information – should his heart burn with such jealousy? He bit his lip, refraining once again the will to reach out to Nolofinwë and include him in the conversation – but then, his brother did not speak Valarin, and somethings had to be said out loud, not in the confines of their too-easily pried thoughts.

“Why?” He managed to ask, at last, a rasping, rash sound that made him cough and rub his throat instinctively.

Oromë reached a canteen in his belt and handed it to him. Fëanáro didn’t think twice and took a long draught. The burning didn’t lessen, but he gave the canteen back with a nod of thanks. He would wait until he had to speak again, not to waste unnecessary words. The Vala kept his silence for a little longer. His eyes were unfocused, turned inwards.

“I have no foresight, like some of thy females do.” _And some males, too,_ Fëanáro thought but said nothing. Oromë continued. “There are many animals which, by instinct, protect orphan cubs from other species because they are vulnerable.”

“We are not babies who need caring, Oromë!” Fëanáro raised his voice and was struck with another fit of coughing. His throat already burned, but at least his head was still mercifully in one piece.

“No, thou art not, of course. Still, thou art Eru’s Children. Thus, thou art also more vulnerable,” the Vala said calmly. “Since that day we met in the hut, I swore I would protect thy secret, and so I have done. I have watched thee, thy brothers and thy children while thou were in my Woods, and I have protected thee from harm. Why thou askest?” He stopped, considering his next words. “I think the most precise answer is because I care for thee, Curufinwë. For all of thee. More than it would be wise for an Ainur,” he added ruefully.

Fëanáro startled with the unexpected confession. “Who is the one we remind you of?” He asked bluntly. Enough subterfuges. He wanted straight answers for once.

Oromë’s pupils narrowed for a moment, but they never left Fëanáro’s eyes. “I do not want to share it with thee.”

Fëanáro lips twitched, and he threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Alright, fine. Keep your love life a secret,” he smirked, thoroughly amused. “But,” he dropped to a dangerous tone, “do not ever think of replacing the one you loved with my son, who is still a child,” his voice changed radically, and it seemed to have gained power as he spoke. “That I forbid, and, Vala or not, if you ever touch him, I _will_ kill you for it!”

Oromë looked like he had been struck. Good. Fëanáro hoped it had hurt the Vala’s ears as much as it had hurt his throat to say those words. But the other recomposed quickly, furrowed his thick, mossy brows.

“I will never impose on him something he does not wish,” Oromë said quietly. “I want to protect him from the attention his abilities will no doubt draw.”

“You are _not_ his father!” Fëanáro shouted and took a step forward to face Oromë. Only now he had realized the Vala’s form was even more diminished, and they stood abreast, leveled-eye. 

“I do not wish to replace neither the one I have lost nor thee as his father. The One is my witness,” the Vala said kindly – infuriatingly calm! – placing a heavy hand on Fëanáro’s shoulder, trying to placate his ire. “Curufinwë,” he said low, and Fëanáro blinked fast and swaggered forward with the wave of affection and care that Oromë flooded his senses with. How he could do that, Fëanáro had no idea, but there was no fighting it. Oromë’s hand held him in place, and he repeated. “Curufinwë, I want to _protect_ all of thee.”

Fëanáro was hit with something new. There was a fierceness inside Oromë’s eyes that he had never seen before, and, at that moment, Fëanáro believed him. But before he could ask anything, he swayed again, and he remembered, perhaps a bit late, how much physical strength it took him to speak that damned tongue. He hated showing that much weakness, but he could not control his own body. 

_Nolofinwë…_ he had the time to think before his feet faltered, and his hands groped forward, clasping on the front of Oromë’s leather tunic. The Vala caught him and gently helped him sit down on the grass, leaning back against a tree trunk fit that could fit them both. 

“It’s alright, be still for a while,” the Vala whispered.

Fëanáro’s head spun, and he couldn’t speak, although he very much wanted. He meant to stand up to fetch water, but Oromë stayed him and pushed him back.

“Let me,” he said and went by the stream that ran not a mile away to fill his canteen. He was back less than five minutes later, handing the flask over to Fëanáro, who, again, drank deeply.

“I don’t know how to heal sore throats from Valarin use,” he said with a fond smile, “but thou, Eruhíni, seem to heal faster with a concoction of honey and lemon.”

Fëanáro stared at him for a moment. His head felt lighter with the cool water and had stopped whirling like a spinning top. He had threatened the Vala’s life and, instead of spiking his head on a spear, Oromë was making little jokes about his condition? He started laughing silently, trying not to force his throat and was surprisingly pleased when Oromë joined him.

He felt something in the back of his mind, the tug of the bond – a concerned, urgent tone in his brother’s ósanwë link. He sent a trail of reassurance, love, and the name he wanted to call for upon his tongue. 

_Nolofinwë…_

Once he was mildly recovered, and his throat didn’t burn so much, he asked in a croaked whisper.

“What do you want to protect us from?”

Oromë, who had sat beside him and reclined on the tree trunk, thumped back his head, staring ahead. “From everything I can,” he said finally, and nothing more.

Fëanáro frowned at those ominous words, but he physically couldn’t hold another intense conversation. It was too intense, and he didn’t want to risk it by mind-speech. Let his mind remain as strong (and as shut) as he could keep it. At least, this time, they had had an honest conversation – or as honest as one of the Ainur could be. 

Fëanáro would never trust any of them wholly, but it was a start. Nolofinwë was a better judge of character and more reliable. He would speak to his brother as soon as he could. Finally, his eyes drifted shut, feeling that, again, he didn’t have much of a choice except to trust Oromë. How did it come to that so suddenly?

Perhaps it had been the intensity of his eyes, the hotness of his skin that poured love into him even when Fëanáro didn’t want it or need it? Perhaps the promise that he would protect Turkafinwë from everything he could. But could Oromë protect Turko from himself? Fëanáro doubted it – and that would be up to him. He would need to keep an extra pair of eyes with Turko. Someone he trusted. And who better than one of his own sons?

Would Carnistir do it? He was closer to Turko than to his two eldest brothers… Yes, perhaps. He would have to think carefully about this later and talk to the boys. And then, he remembered. He _needed_ to speak with Turko. His third born had run away, and they still needed to settle their differences and-

“So…” Oromë asked in Quenya, interrupting his musings. Fëanáro turned to meet his eyes; their mouths were so close they could have kissed – and that thought almost made Fëanáro choke with laughter. “Will thee allow thy son to come with me?”

Fëanáro sighed. “I will. Under the conditions we have spoken previously,” and at that, the Vala nodded and smiled. “And as long as he wants to. If he wishes to return sooner, you will bring him home. Safe, as you promised.”

“Aye, young Curufinwë, doth not worry so! I have given thee my word that thou and thine are safe with me. So little faith hast thou in my word?”

“Yes?” He said, but they both laughed. After a long silence, he said: “Turko will be happy to hear it.”

“Ah, yes,” the Vala said, looking past the grove where they sat towards the forest as if he could actually see where his son was. “Go talk to him. He needs thee, his father, to tell him the news,” and Oromë smiled sweetly again. Reassuringly and warm, like his own father. Fëanáro huffed and stood up, feeling recovered. “Tell him I will wait for him down the stream when Spring comes. He can meet me there.”

Fëanáro nodded and stared awhile at Oromë, who had now closed those eerie eyes and started making strange, guttural noises like a cat. He wanted to laugh, but the image was strangely peaceful. He left the Vala and went to find his son. The young man sat on the porch, straight silvery hair hiding his face. He was toying with something in his hands that Fëanáro couldn’t see.

He approached the porch and sat by Turko’s side, but his son didn’t even raise his head – it reminded him so much of when he was a small child discovering his Powers, and how much it had frightened him to be disbelieved by people whom he trusted, like his grandfather. Fëanáro looked down, and a butterfly lazily flapped its colorful wings on the palm of Turko’s hands; his lips were moving, but Fëanáro could hear no sound.

“I wish you had told me, you know,” Fëanáro said quietly, clasping his hands in his lap and staring ahead of them. Turkafinwë looked at him but said nothing. “I wish you trusted my judgment like your brothers do.”

Turkafinwë remained silent, and when Fëanáro looked at him, he saw his shoulders trembled, although he tried to hide it – big boys don’t cry, he used to say. Fëanáro’s heart clenched, and tears climbed up his throat.

“Ah, Turko… come here.” He pulled Turkafinwë’s shoulders and brought the silver head to his own shoulder, embracing the lean, already muscular body. 

“I trust you, atar,” he managed to mutter between his sobs. “That’s why I knew you wouldn’t let me go. You would stop me and Oromë, and our friendship.” He sobbed more, burying his head on Fëanáro’s neck and holding him tight.

“I didn’t realize this was so important for you. That is why I said you could have talked to me, my son. I would do anything for your happiness, don’t you know that yet? Anything, Turko! The world is yours, and I will give it to you on a silver platter if I can. Please, will you forgive me?”

Turkafinwë nodded curtly, but his weeping didn’t lessen with that speech. They rocked back and forth for a while until the young man could speak again. He withdrew suddenly, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. 

“It had dreamed about the day I would go to Oromë, and he would teach me everything,” he said with a tear-stifled voice. “Stupid childhood dreams.”

“Yes, dreaming can be dangerous a thing,” Fëanáro said seriously, but anticipating the reaction he would get when Turkafinwë knew of his decision. The young one said nothing, as Fëanáro had expected, and stared ahead like he was scaring his stupid childhood dreams away. Fëanáro continued, barely able to refrain a smile. “It is good, then, that your childhood is not entirely over and that some dreams do come true.”

It took a second longer for those words to sink in but, once they did, Turkafinwë turned his head so fast that Fëanáro was hit by his unbraided hair, and he chuckled. His green eyes were huge, filled with wild hope. How could Fëanáro deny that to any of his sons, even if it meant being with a Vala?

“Atar…” he whispered. “Are you really saying what I think you are saying?”

“What? That Oromë has asked me to tell you he will expect you next Spring? Yes.”

He didn’t have time to say anything else because Turkafinwë literally jumped at him, knocking him down. After he had started having archery and wood-sword training, he was beginning to develop into a muscular build. Fëanáro knew he would be the strongest than any other in the family – except, perhaps, Finwë. So when Fëanáro’s back hit the ground, he puffed out air and was smashed by Turko’s growing weight and the kisses that rained on his cheek.

“You are the best, atar, thankyouthankyouthankyou,” he said in one breath, and Fëanáro laughed.

He embraced Turkafinwë tight around his ribs until the young man groaned. Turko was strong, but Fëanáro was stronger still. When they had run out of breath, Fëanáro held his third born’s grinning face between his hands.

“This is what I wanted to see,” he said and pecked Turko’s nose. Unlike Macalaurë, who had started avoiding too much fatherly affection, Turkafinwë still basked in it, and so did Fëanáro. 

“I’m sorry I said you were paranoid,” Turkafinwë said softly, but there was no trace of shame on his handsome face.

“You are forgiven,” Fëanáro chuckled. “I hope you do realize that I love you more than anything in the world, and I will do what I can to make you happy.”

“Even let me skip all my history, chemistry, rhetoric, and philosophy lessons? That would make me _very_ happy, atar. Oh, and cooking too,” he said with a straight-face that made Fëanáro shout with laughter.

“That is a dream of yours that won’t ever come true!” He said, still chuckling.

“I had to try!” Turkafinwë’s grin widened. “Is Oromë still here? Can I go look for him?”

“Yes, run off, you little rascal.” Turkafinwë sprang up and ran like a deer. “But don’t come home after the Mingling!” He cried to his son’s back.

Fëanáro laid there, at the porch’s floor, with a content smile on his face. He was glad he had managed to solve this – and on his own! Nolofinwë would be very proud, he chuckled to himself. And, in the end, he felt that he could trust his children’s lives in the hands of Oromë, just like he had trusted their bond. He saw Turko’s smile dance before his eyes, and he thought his heart would burst with the force of his love.

Oh, Eru, he would carve his heart out to give it to his sons, if only he could always see the smiles that birthed in their faces like the most precious of gems!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am clearly not an expert in the "thee/thou" thing, so sorry native speakers for the mistakes xD 
> 
> Also, if you liked it, give me a shout out! :D


	34. What lies beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Ann_arien, who's the most steadfast supporter and such a great friend. She's asked for more Rúmil, so here it is. I hope you like it dear! <3

Fëanáro spent the rest of that day in his workshop as he finished polishing other stones like the great one he had made for himself, refining their Power and attuning them with the Song – like Aulë had once taught him. He curled his lips in disgust when the memory assailed him, but he suppressed it violently, with all the force of his mind, focusing on the work instead.

It was only when the Mingling came that he felt the pull of exhaustion draining his limbs. It was always thus: he was used to the process of giving parts of his fëa into his creations. And this was just the first batch of the Far-Seers, the ones he would give to those he trusted. Rúmil should definitely have one. Waimano, one of his most loyal followers, should too. That Nerdanel’s parents had another couldn’t hurt. And, of course, his brother would surely have more than one. 

Ah, Nolofinwë... Memories of his brother flashed through his mind relentlessly, filling him with yearning and desire.

Fëanáro didn’t want to return to the main house like this, he knew. So he crossed to the forges and passed over his apprentices’ tables, checking what they had done that day. Three very promising newcomers had listened attentively to his explanation and had done exceptionally well. Fëanáro was pleased and would put them under Lindwë’s instructions. Now that Waimano’s boy was older and more confident, Fëanáro knew he could trust him to take a step further and start teaching the basics, at least.

A glint of gold caught his attention, and he crossed to the table where one of the apprentices, Sírmo – a lad that started working with him only last Summer – had left an unfinished bracelet. Fëanáro inspected it closely, turning it in his fingers. The intricate design was exactly like Fëanáro had taught him, delicate and light. But the clasp was flawed, too heavy and rude. Indeed, when he separated the clip from the main piece, the rest crumbled in his hands.

He made a face. That was definitely _not_ how he had taught them the finishing process. No matter. He could use the distraction, for Nolofinwë’s smile hovered over his head – ah, how much he wanted his brother to be there! 

Fëanáro moved to the only oven that was continuously left burning in case inspiration or insomnia snatched him like it did today – well, most of the days, he admitted with a wry smile. He hammered and shaped metal until the Mingling found him there once more, finishing the final touches in tiny new clasps, perfectly wrought and so elegant they could barely be distinguished from the main piece. 

As he was about to add a minuscule engraved eight-pointed star with a chisel as fine and sharp as a needle, he heard the sounds of hooves clapping in the yard. A peal of laughter drifted in the air as sweet as lavender, and Fëanáro stilled his hands, heart thumping fast. The faster he focused, the faster he would finish, he told himself, because he couldn’t believe his own ears. He engraved the star as quickly as his perfectionism allowed and, when he lifted his eyes, a vision stared at him.

He traveled his eyes appreciatively over the glorious figure reclined at the doorpost: soft riding boots, black linen breeches, a practical but regal black tunic clasped with an elegant mithril belt that shaped his slim hips most enticingly. Arms crossed on his chest, jet braided hair tossed over one shoulder, and a smile that might stop the Trees from blooming. Fëanáro’s breath caught in his lungs as Nolofinwë bolted the door and strode toward the center of the forge with a sway that could have killed him – warrior-like, kingly. Magnificent.

Fëanáro was astonished to see that man conjured from his dreams in front of him, and that sight alone made heat pool deliciously in his loins. He dropped the tools and tossed off his smithing gear in a hurry, pulling the elf in front of him to an embrace so full of longing and love that Nolofinwë laughed low, one hand disappearing into Fëanáro’s loose tail and the other on his backside, pulling him ever close.

Fëanáro withdrew, his brother’s beautiful face between his hands, and looked him in the eyes. 

“How come you are here?” He asked in a husky tone, eyes feasting on Nolofinwë’s features.

“I sensed you were calling me, so I came,” his brother answered, deep-blue eyes already lit with unassuaged hunger.

Fëanáro frowned slightly but then smiled. Of course, he had called Nolofinwë’s name when he was weakened by the Valarin speech – but he didn’t think his brother would listen, not like that. _Ah, melmënya_ , he whispered inside his beloved’s mind, and their bond exploded around them, white and gold fire. Gazes locked, they plunged together, filling the world with nothing else but each other, scent, touch, and love. Fëanáro’s eyes fixed on Nolofinwë’s full mouth, and his own lips followed in a knee-weaken kiss that left him trembling with desire. 

Fëanáro pressed chest against chest, wanting to devour, but his brother kept his head in place, secure between the strong cradle of those hands. He rolled his hips and growled, trying to make the obvious even more so. Nolofinwë smiled against his lips.

“I didn’t summon you here so you could torment me!” He teased, but more than a little breathless. 

“Summoned me?” Nolofinwë withdrew and raised his eyebrows in feigned indignation.

“Hum, yes,” he hummed low. “And you have come,” Fëanáro shivered and gasped as Nolofinwë’s tongue traced a wet trail from his neck to his earlobe.

“And here I have come, to kneel and pay homage where it’s due,” Nolofinwë smirked and palmed the iron-hard bulge in Fëanáro’s breeches.

He felt Nolofinwë’s smile against his skin and pressed forward into his hand as his brother’s fingers unlaced it deftly. Before Fëanáro could say anything, Nolofinwë indeed got to his knees and took him in his mouth, enveloping him in moist, delicious heat. He bucked and howled while long, already oiled fingers probed back to his entrance and stretched him with little stabs that drove him mad with lust. At last, he throbbed in bliss upon Nolofinwë’s swirling tongue. 

Nolofinwë rose swiftly and licked his lips. “Delicious, my brother,” he purred. 

Fëanáro hardly stifled a moan of pure need. Another surge of pleasure throbbed through his entire body because he needed more. _More_. He saw the flask of quenching oil open beside him and laughed at how fast his brother had found it. He let his limp body be turned and bent over the table.

“Ah, melmënya, I am dying for you,” Nolofinwë breathed in his ear, and they both moaned when his hot length rubbed Fëanáro’s cleft. Nolofinwë put his weight on his back and sheathed himself to the hilt with a guttural grunt. 

The feeling of Nolofinwë inside him was too right, too _good_ , and his over-sensitive body let out a strangled sob of pleasure when his brother angled himself just right. It was like finally coming home. They rode together a crest of white, blinding heat, so intense Fëanáro felt water prickling his eyes. Nolofinwë’s body crushed him against the wooden surface, hot breath on his nape licking and biting, an arm tight around his shoulders and a firm hand on his hip. Nolofinwë growled and bit his shoulder hard as he came. Feeling the hot seed coat his walls, a spike of lust shot through his belly, and Fëanáro exploded again, shuddering and soiling the table underneath him. 

They soared together for a few moments, enjoying their closeness and familiarity, wishing neither had to resurface. Fëanáro turned his head, and they shared a lazy kiss, savoring the feeling of their still joined bodies. Nolofinwë withdrew carefully, cock softening, and Fëanáro turned around to let his brother rest a sweaty forehead on his shoulder.

“Bath?” He asked after a short while.

“Oh, yes,” Nolofinwë chuckled hoarsely. “The road was dusty, and it might take a week to rinse it all off.”

“Hm, what a filthy lover I have,” Fëanáro grinned. “Go on, get off these clothes while I clean this mess and fill the tub.”

“Will you join me?” Nolofinwë asked, and the longing in his voice almost made his heart stop.

“How could I deny those pleading eyes, meldanya?” Fëanáro kissed his brow tenderly, and Nolofinwë smiled.

They soaked contentedly and sated in the enormous marble tub Fëanáro had built in his chambers, at the back of his workshop. Steaming hot water and different scents of oil filled the room. Nolofinwë had picked an orange, rosemary, and cinnamon mix, which was warm and soothing. They sat facing each other, feet caressing until Nolofinwë shifted to sit between his legs, pressing his back against Fëanáro’s chest. They embraced for a moment, Fëanáro massaged his scalp and back.

“Ah, Ulmo’s soaking balls!” Nolofinwë cursed suddenly, and Fëanáro chuckled. “I forgot we shouldn’t do this,” he half turned to look at Fëanáro, who merely raised his brows. “Bathe together, brother. We will smell the same again!”

Fëanáro shrugged. “I have considered it, but since you asked so prettily…” and he chuckled when Nolofinwë turned again to glare at him.

“You should have reminded your thick-headed brother who was more concerned in getting all of you at once than _where_ he actually was.”

“Remind you not to pounce on me? Can you listen to yourself?” He said incredulously, and they both laughed at that.

They stayed silent for a while, relishing the company and the touches. Until, at last, Nolofinwë sighed. He frowned. 

“What troubles you, my love?” He asked low in Nolofinwë’s ear and grinned at the shiver that crawled his skin.

“Do you need to ask?” He turned his gorgeous head, and Fëanáro felt, then, Nolofinwë’s side of the bond filled with concern. 

Of course, Nolofinwë would be troubled by the manner of his “summoning.” He had been weak, and Nolofinwë might have misunderstood the call with fear of Oromë or what the Vala’s presence in his house might have brought.

“There is nothing to worry about,” he reassured, touching Nolofinwë’s cheek. “He has remade his vows of secrecy, and if I had doubted him before, this time I didn’t. He seemed genuine enough in his offer, emphatic even.”

“And what of Turkafinwë?”

“He will go in Spring.”

Nolofinwë turned so fast it splashed water out of the tub into the ceramic floor. “You’ll let him?”

“Yes, I think it’s for the best. Turko would be miserable if I didn’t, and he truly trusts the Vala. I have to trust my son’s instincts, too.” Nolofinwë opened his mouth but thought better and swallowed his words. Fëanáro sensed that hesitation and smiled. “I know he is a child, brother, yet he has gone to the wilds more times than his elder brothers, and he can fend for himself better than many an Elf I know.”

Nolofinwë frowned. “I want to trust him either. With all my heart. I wish things were simpler...” he muttered and trailed off, looking away at the window thoughtfully, his beautiful, hard profile glistening with the golden light that poured in the chamber from the skylight above.

“I know,” Fëanáro said softly. “But I wouldn’t have made that decision if I wasn’t absolutely sure Oromë will do whatever it takes to keep Turko safe. And he will,” Fëanáro answered when he saw the question in his brother’s eyes. “I know he will.”

Nolofinwë’s gaze pierced his soul, intent, and reflexive. “I trust your judgment, brother.”

Fëanáro knew, then, he didn’t mean that about Turko, but about them. He took Nolofinwë’s hand and kissed the inside of his wrist, his palm, and felt his brother’s pulse leap under his lips. He drew Nolofinwë’s face closer, and as his tongue sought out his lover’s, they heard someone calling him from outside the balcony of his chambers.

“Atar! Atar!” 

They groaned in each other’s mouths and parted. “Yes, Maitimo?” He bellowed from the bathroom, and Nolofinwë winced. He still hadn’t gotten used to all the shouting – Fëanáro laughed inward with the idea that his much calmer and polite brother never would.

“The messenger you called for is here! I sent her to wait in the kitchen. It’s Tiliel, remember her?” His eldest chirped.

Fëanáro got out of the tub, wrapped a towel over his hips, and strode out, perfectly aware of Nolofinwë’s intense gaze licking the skin of his back and legs. He smirked and bent down to speak to Maitimo. His son was a little distance away from the balcony, staring straight ahead – probably trying to avoid seeing too much, he thought.

“Rusco,” he called, and his eldest turned to him with a sweet smile. “Can you please tell her I’ll be there in a moment?”

“Of course, atar,” he turned to leave but halted, hesitating. “Has uncle Nolofinwë arrived?” He asked, slowly lifting his eyes to meet Fëanáro’s.

“Yes. He is here with me,” he said with a nonchalant smile. Maitimo stared at him as if waiting for more information, and Fëanáro added. “Sorry, son, he came alone.”

Maitimo bit his lip and nodded curtly. Fëanáro frowned and turned to the inside of his chamber, where Nolofinwë was already getting dressed.

“Have they quarreled?” He asked, watching Nolofinwë put on his tunic.

“Not that I am aware. Findekáno seemed fine yesterday when I left him, and a messenger between them couldn’t have reached Formenos before I did. Unless they spoke mind-to-mind.”

“No, Rusco is cautious with it... I think he is just a little disappointed that his cousin didn’t come.”

“Well, it’s not like I have given him a choice,” Nolofinwë raised his brows. “He has exams to study for, and Maitimo is enough a distraction to him as it is, being his tutor once a week.”

Fëanáro shook his head and smiled. “I am glad that these two have developed such a special relationship.”

Nolofinwë looked at him, then, and cocked his head, but said nothing. His thoughts were not open, though, but Fëanáro thought that if his brother wanted to share something, he simply would. 

“I worry for Findekáno,” he said at last. Fëanáro stared at him and waited. “He thinks of little else than sparring, shooting arrows, and being with his cousin.” 

“I heard he is doing a mighty fine job in every competition. He is a formidable archer and rider, or so Maitimo tells me. Got a compliment from Tulkas himself, didn’t he?” Fëanáro couldn’t hide his sneer, but he knew that, for the young man, it was quite a feat.

“The best thing that ever happened to him, he said,” Nolofinwë smiled wryly. “But they are all right. Findekáno _is_ skilled in all of those things and more,” he said and sighed. “I just wish he had a bit more responsibility. He is almost of age now and wants to know nothing about his duties as a prince.”

“Duties, brother?” Fëanáro laughed. “He has Father, and you, and an elder cousin – all of which much more eager than him – to take on that responsibility.” He circled the bed and pulled Nolofinwë for an embrace. “Let him enjoy life.”

“I wish he would follow Maitimo in this, as well,” he sighed. “You know, the talk in Tirion is that he ought to marry soon. There are so many maidens smitten that I wondered if rumors were true.”

Fëanáro snorted. “I don’t think Maitimo will ever marry. As for Finno... you should let him find his own way, brother. He is almost an adult now, and whichever path he decides to take, it’s his choice. Forty-eight is old enough to decide whether he wishes to stay with you a little longer, marry, or even move out of the palace.”

“Move out?” Nolofinwë blinked with surprise. “I had never even considered that this is something he might wish...” he exhaled and bit his lower lip.

“Don’t worry, beloved. He won’t stop loving you,” Fëanáro said with an amused tone.

“You say that because it’s not one of your own,” Nolofinwë said dryly. “But you’re right, I know...”

“Then think no more of it,” Fëanáro put a hot hand on his arm and squeezed lightly. “At least for now. Come. Quit stalling and let us go,” he clapped his brother’s shoulder.

“Stalling? As far as I can see, I’m the only one dressed,” he sat down on the bed to put on his boots. 

But when Nolofinwë looked up at him again, he had already thrown everyday working clothes over his damp body and waited by the door, with a smug smile.

“You were saying?”

Nolofinwë merely rolled his eyes as he followed.

The messenger sat at the kitchen table with a cup of water in her hands and chatted animatedly with Macalaurë as they walked in. The conversation died at once as the girl stood up and bowed respectfully.

“My lords.”

“Hello, Tiliel! Good to see you again,” Fëanáro smiled. “My thanks for coming so fast.” The girl bowed lower and didn’t raise her eyes. “Can you take a message to Rúmil?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Fëanáro grabbed an already written and sealed note from under the fruit bowl and put it in the girl’s hand.

“Tell him to make haste. He is expected for the midday meal.”

“Anything else?” She asked, raising her eyes and blushing heavily at the sight of them – freshly bathed, glistening in the golden light, fierce and beautiful princes of the Noldor. At their negatives, Tiliel bowed, and her eyes strayed to Macalaurë, but the young man had his head dipped to his chest and fidgeted with bread crumbs on the table, so he missed her shy attempts of a goodbye.

As soon as she’d left, Macalaurë stood up.

“Uncle,” he said with a nervous smile and hurried up before Nolofinwë could reply. 

His brother opened and closed his mouth in resignation. “Well, that’s an improvement,” he mumbled wearily, shaking his head, disappointed.

“Come, brother,” Fëanáro urged. “There is something I want to show you before Rúmil arrives.”

***

As soon as Rúmil spotted the Finwëion brothers reunited on the porch to receive him, he startled to see how much those years of happiness and closeness had changed them – unified them, yes, but more: it alighted both from within. There was a glow about them, like Laurelin’s golden rays were delighted to wash upon their skin and envelop them in its safe warmth. Their bond seeped from their hearts with an unusual brightness and wove around them like the threads of fate, inseparable and indissoluble, stronger than Rúmil had ever seen.

He cantered his horse to a full stop and looked down at Nolofinwë in wonder; his heart leaped in his chest, for the High Prince had grown almost beyond recognition. He had seen him not so long ago, but oh, how different he was now! The young boy who had been so eager to please and be praised had become a confident man, both wise and beautiful. A force of nature in itself, the perfect match, he thought, for the radiant star that stood beside him.

As Rúmil’s eyes strayed from one brother to the other, a lump lodged in his throat, and he had to swallow hard. Powerful, charming beyond words… He tried not to be jealous. He tried not to feel left out by the fire he coveted, yet so very few could have its full, blazing attention. He envied and admired Nolofinwë, the white-silver flame that burned just as bright if only one looked deep enough – and with Nolofinwë, one _had_ to, for he had become renowned among the masters as the most talented politician in Tirion, for no one could read past the carefully constructed aloofness of his mask. Rúmil’s treacherous heart ached with longing at the sight of them, their connection painfully visible to his eyes.

In an instant, he had to shove away those thoughts, for a body as hot as the core of Arda enveloped him in an embrace so filled with love he staggered. A heady scent of orange and spices blinded him to reason and filled, if ever so briefly, the gaping hole in his soul. Rúmil couldn’t spoil the moment, not for Fëanáro, his dearest... So he made himself smile – a rueful smile, but that could not be helped. 

To his absolute surprise, Nolofinwë also pulled him inside the cradle of his strong arms like they had never done before and filled him with respect, gratitude – perhaps a little love, too? Rúmil started, engulfed by the same smell of oranges and spices that could make one dizzy with desire – ah, how careless of them! – but he returned the embrace fiercely, and they both clung to each other.

Was it a silent recognition between their fëas that neither could live without Fëanáro?

As Nolofinwë withdrew and threw him a dazzling smile like a confirmation, Rúmil gaped and did nothing to suppress the tug of his own lips. How could one resist either of them? He shook his head and laughed softly. He was becoming a sentimentalist old fool, that’s what.

“I’m glad you’ve come, my friend,” Fëanáro’s mellifluous voice brought his head up to meet bright-diamond eyes.

“I could hardly deny a message urging me to meet the Princes of the House of Finwë,” he smiled.

“You’re right, you couldn’t,” Fëanáro smirked, and they all laughed. “You will also be glad you did. I have finished a new experiment, and I want you to be the first outsider to test it.”

Rúmil’s eyes sparkled with interest, and he tried to pretend the wording didn’t hurt him. He knew Fëanáro didn’t mean it like that – like he was not important. Like he didn’t matter. It was not true. Wasn’t he the first one to be called for? He violently crushed the yearning for a family in his heart – to be a part of Fëanáro’s family – and smiled.

Fëanáro led him into the kitchen, where his children were already seated for the midday meal. Rúmil saluted each of the boys in turn with a wistful regret that he wasn’t their tutor. Yet with a father like Fëanáro – and yes, an uncle like Nolofinwë – these boys would lack for nothing in terms of education. He hadn’t forgotten young Nelyo, a prodigy in rhetoric and one of the most prominent scholars in History and Languages since... well, since Fëanáro himself. And, of course, there was Nerdanel, master of sculpture and pottery.

She came from the pantry at that moment with two bottles of wine.

“Nolofinwë! I didn’t know you had arrived!” Nerdanel greeted with a warm smile.

Rúmil was not entirely surprised to see purple marks around her eyes – everyone knew the twins’ birth had been hard on her – but he did frown at the extreme tiredness of her aura. That was never a good sign, and a pang of worry hit Rúmil in the pitch of his stomach. The twins, already seated, claimed her attention as soon as she entered the room.

“Hello, Nerdanel,” Nolofinwë blazed her a smile that made two or three of the children stop and gape – and with an inward chuckle, Rúmil reminded himself that some were not children anymore. “I apologize,” Nolofinwë continued. “It doesn’t suffice to say that you might be used with my terrible manners?” 

Nerdanel chuckled. “Never mind manners. Forgetting where you are already?”

Nolofinwë laughed with her, and they sat down – she, at the other end of the table, and Nolofinwë at Fëanáro’s right hand. Rúmil sat by his left, beside Nelyafinwë. Macalaurë shifted a bit to give his uncle space, and his face heated up. It seemed to Rúmil the young man wanted to bolt out of the table by the red shade on his cheeks.

Fëanáro went quickly about and brought forth the dishes: freshly made bread, a vegetable soup, chicken pie with raspberry gravy, the remainings of a cold game, and soft goat cheese. It smelled delicious and looked even better. 

“Dig in,” Fëanáro said as he sat down again, and they all reached for the food at the same time with loud chatter. 

“Fëanáro’s chicken pie is the best,” Nolofinwë praised between hungry bites.

“What’s for dessert?” One of the twins asked.

“Eat your meal first, dear,” Nerdanel said.

“Strawberries with cream,” Fëanáro said to no one in particular, “and apple cinnamon pie for those who behave well,” he blinked to the little ones who gave him toothless, excited grins. 

A glance at his host told Rúmil much more than Nolofinwë’s courteous manners. Fëanáro seemed embarrassed, perhaps because of those same manners that treated Nerdanel somehow friendly – yet, if she only knew… The whole ordeal wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t right – at least not with her – but Rúmil was no hypocrite to say anything now. Had he not been the one to silently encourage Fëanáro to pursue his heart’s desire all those years ago?

As the meal went on, it became clear that his old pupil knew the delicate situation he was in. The frown that creased his perfect brows were proof that Fëanáro was acutely aware of how absurd that whole farce had become despite the amenities that veneered what laid under the carpet. Rúmil sensed the disturbance in how he darted his jeweled eyes between his legal lover and his illegal one, or the way he brushed back his hair with nervous hands and tight smiles. He could hide nothing, that one. Never could. 

Nolofinwë, though, was another matter entirely. Rúmil could feel Nolofinwë’s mind reaching out to soothe, his golden aura washing over Fëanáro’s troubled one. He vaguely wondered if a mountain could have made that perfect mask crumble. Regal and kingly, with kind smiles to all, the High Prince exuded charm and charisma. No wonder Macalaurë looked like he had been struck by a lightning bolt – Rúmil snorted to himself.

Once it was over, they all stood up and took the dirty plates and food off the table.

“Alright, you three,” Nerdanel looked at Tyelkormo, Carnistir, and Curufinwë the young, “it’s your turn in the kitchen.” Turkafinwë groaned aloud, and Carnistir grimaced.

“None of that,” Fëanáro intervened while pouring more wine for Rúmil. “You heard your mother. Go on.”

“No, thank you, I still need to finish the next commission I have,” she said to Fëanáro when he moved to fill her glass. “Ah, and Tyelko, no breakings, please,” she pleaded tiredly.

“Oh yes, Turko, be careful, will you? You can’t break every pottery your mother makes every time you go into the kitchen.”

“But atar, it’s because I hate it!” He whined.

“If you prefer, I can appoint you the task of bathing your siblings and putting them for a nap. Your choice,” Fëanáro said mildly.

Turkafinwë bit his lips and looked at Macalaurë, who smirked.

“Want to change, little bear?”

“Can I borrow your harp?”

“Not in a million years!” Macalaurë laughed.

“But atar, I can’t make the twins sleep like Káno does!”

“Well, then…” Fëanáro said, pointing the sink with his head. “Not much of a choice, is it?”

They all scattered to their duties, while Fëanáro led Rúmil to the adjacent sitting chamber. Nolofinwë sat in one armchair, and Rúmil was appointed to sit beside him in another. Nelyafinwë joined them on the floor. Nerdanel and Fëanáro, side by side in the small couch – thus forming a circle – shared a batch of clothes that needed sewing and started working. Rúmil was a little bemused and not a little impatient. Had Fëanáro really called him here to show him embroidery? 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t avoid staring at the deft movements of his fingers, perfect stitches that came in and out fast and precise like he could be doing it with his eyes closed – and Rúmil didn’t doubt he could. Quickly, little figures started appearing in the youngling’s tunics where once holes had been. Although in a different shade, the fall of his hair over the hoop reminded Rúmil of Míriel. A painful ache in his chest suddenly opened like a bleeding wound, something ancient and fathomless that made him instinctively clutch his tunic above his heart.

It had been years since he had last thought of Fëanáro’s mother. And why did it hurt so much to think of her now? It was like a part of him had been torn away, but Rúmil couldn’t place his fingers at why. He had the odd feeling that he had thought of these things before, but he couldn’t quite remember. In fact, it was strange… his memory seemed a bit fogged. Why couldn’t he recall much of her before the Journey? Had he ever had that impression? But the more Rúmil tried to think about, the less he remembered.

“Rúmil? Are you alright?” Nolofinwë’s deep voice called him softly, for his ears alone.

As soon as he opened his eyes, the thoughts drifted away like mist and left no trace. He looked at Nolofinwë and blinked. There was no recollection left of Míriel, and he looked at his hand, clutching hard the velvety fabric of his clothes with a puzzled frown.

“Yes, perfectly, thank you,” but Nolofinwë’s intent gaze didn’t leave him, but he merely smiled and scratched the place where his hand had rested. The tension left Nolofinwë’s stone-carved features, and the High Prince smiled back, satisfied with his answer, and turned to his nephew.

“Well, Rusco, now I think is as good a time as ever,” Nolofinwë gave that blinding smile to the tall man, and Rúmil stared unashamedly.

Nelyo licked his lips and darted his eyes first to his uncle, then to his father. Fëanáro held his gaze quizzically. “I have a proposition for the court,” he said with the confidence that spoke of many worked hours. 

“Do you now?” Fëanáro drawled, brows raised and looking pointedly at Nolofinwë, who smirked. “Have you shown it to your grandfather?”

“Not yet. But uncle Nolofinwë helped me all the way through, and Amil has also read it,” Nelyo smiled, “and we’re sure haru can be convinced. The problem is the court. They will no doubt laugh at my boldness and call me a child still,” he waved a hand in front of him, so much like his father that Rúmil had to suppress a chuckle, “but I wrote an edict that might change education among the Noldor.”

Fëanáro looked at him, intrigued. “How so?”

Nelyo sat upright, encouraged by the glint in his father’s eyes. “Everyone in Tirion can use the library freely and educate themselves, but as noble-born, we have private tutors until we are of age. Then we are free to pursue our career of choice,” Nelyo said passionately, seeing the interest he elicited, “but we already have the advantage of counting with good education since we utter our very first words. Not only languages but all sorts of arts and crafts. Those who are not noble-born should have proper teaching as well,” he said in earnest, darting his polished-mithril eyes from one elder to the other, and Rúmil smiled openly. Yes, Fëanáro had done a fine job with this one. “They should be able to learn as much as we do, and to have the chance to build their own households, ascend in the hierarchy – or abolish hierarchy at all, for I care,” he muttered the last sentence.

Fëanáro threw back his head and laughed out loud, for he had heard it, and the whole room came alive with it. “Ah, my son,” he said between gasps for air, “you will kill your father one day out of sheer pride!” Fëanáro’s eyes sparkled with joy so profound that Rúmil wondered if the room could contain it or if it would burst.

“It’s brilliant,” Nerdanel said to Fëanáro with a smile that deepened when she turned to Nelyo. “I am so very proud, love.”

“I told him it was an exceptional idea,” Nolofinwë smiled too. 

Nelyo chuckled and blushed, shaking his head. “You are far too optimistic, Uncle,” he said, his adoring eyes at his doting family.

“It can be done, of course,” Rúmil intervened. “That is how it was in Cuiviénen.” 

An awkward silence fell on the room, except for the soft sound of the pluck of Fëanáro’s needle. Rúmil could feel Nerdanel’s annoyance; the smile vanished from her face, and she looked to the pair of breeches in her hands with feigned concentration. Nolofinwë and Nelyo were untroubled, though, and Fëanáro hadn’t even raised his head from his task.

“Did you have educational centers?” Nelyo asked with a dangerous, thrilling gleam in his eyes.

“Not like what you have in mind,” Rúmil answered with a smile. “But you are right presuming that because education was for everyone, there was much less social stratification then. The tribes had chieftains, of course, who led their people – like your own grandfather. But it is also true that one person never did the same thing two days straight. We rotated our tasks, so everyone knew how to fight, smith, or heal if it was needed. When we started losing people, this became especially important.” Rúmil said more softly, his eyes turning inward, the ever-present pain of his separation with Nurwë as keen as it had been the day he was lost. 

Nelyo shifted on the floor, frowning, not quite understanding the fear and uncertainty that permeated their lives then. No, none of them could understand – not even brilliant, empathetic Fëanáro, to whom Rúmil had confessed all these things before and much more.

“We elected the builders and the healers among those who were more attuned to the Song,” he continued, then, turning his eyes from Nolofinwë to Nelyo – who watched him intently, blazing gazes fiery enough to scorch Arda to the ground – “but we have all learned to do everything. And that started by teaching children since they were very young to do every task – a thing your father has also adopted in his own house,” Rúmil smiled to Fëanáro then, who had been watching him with bright eyes filled with compassion.

“And the women, of course, did all of those things as well,” Nolofinwë said softly and unexpectedly, drawing the attention of the room to him. Nerdanel stiffened and pursed her lips.

“Of course,” Rúmil acquiesced, bowing his head slightly to the brilliant elf Nolofinwë had become. “Some of our women were the most fiercer of our archers, and some of the best hunters. Indis of the Minyar was one of them, as good a hunter as Míriel was a healer,” Rúmil lowered his eyes, feeling his mind suddenly nag with that insistent feeling about Míriel again. What was it?

“Indis? You mean haruni Indis?” Nelyo spluttered, and Fëanáro snorted at his son’s reaction.

“The very same. She was fierce and bright as the spear she wielded,” Rúmil added with a smile. “But, of course, those were other days, and there is no need to fight for your life in the Blessed Realm,” he said acidly and a slanted look at Fëanáro, who smirked with him as if in a secret joke.

“Indeed,” muttered Nolofinwë, taking a sip of his wine. He shared another knowing look with Fëanáro from the brim of his cup.

Nerdanel thinned her lips and shoved the clothes she had been mending on the basket again. “I’m quite finished,” she said tersely and left the room.

An intelligent woman who would undoubtedly have picked all that non-so subtle sarcasm – and clearly disliked it very much. Rúmil winced and felt suddenly guilty. He shouldn’t indulge Fëanáro like this, but ah… it was all so wrong…! But how, in honest, could he not indulge both of them in whatever it was? How many times had the mere thought of Fëanáro’s friendship – and hands on his hips, lips on his neck, and fire in his body – been the only thing that anchored him to this land? To life?

If it wasn’t for Fëanáro, Rúmil knew he would have faded. He would have _chosen_ it. Better to lay peacefully in the Halls of Mandos knowing what it was than living this farce of freedom inside the jail that was Valinor. He sighed wistfully.

“Do not begrudge yourself, my friend,” Fëanáro said softly. He had put down the hoop and the needles and looked at him in that way of his – bewitching, passionately, capable of making his very bones melt.

 _It is our fault anyway_ , he heard Nolofinwë say into his mind, and he knew Fëanáro heard it as well.

“Come, all of you. It is time,” Fëanáro stood up and reached out a hand to Nelyo, who took it eagerly.

“Is it ready?” He asked a little breathlessly to his father, to which Fëanáro smiled and guided them to the workshop inside his forges.

Rúmil had never been there before, and he realized there was a door leading to a wide chamber with a large bed, an adjoining bath chamber – and a chamber inside that chamber. However, Rúmil’s curiosity was cut short when Nolofinwë crossed to close the door and looked at him with mischief in his eyes. He was at a loss for words. They couldn’t be sharing a roof, a bed, inside Fëanáro’s own house!

He whirled to look at his own pupil with indignation in his eyes, to ask – or claim, he didn’t know – that it was too much! However, Fëanáro and his eldest were already bent over a round object that looked like a massive polished gem, bigger than their heads, engrossed in a conversation about its properties.

“I don’t think my ósanwë is strong enough, atar,” Nelyo said softly.

“Nonsense, my love!” Fëanáro kissed his eldest’s front. “You are strong-willed and will do just fine.” 

Rúmil’s reproach died in his throat at the mention of ósanwë and, as Fëanáro raised his eyes to him, all else fled from his mind. The strange object called to him. He could feel it – its Power rippled, the undercurrents of what Fëanáro had created, his soul deeply imprinted on it. It was as much his own as his children, Rúmil realized. Whatever Power Fëanáro had learned from Aulë, it was turned into something else. Something _more_ , and Rúmil could almost feel it in the air.

“I want you to try it,” Fëanáro said to Rúmil, who flickered his gaze from the stone – for its appearance was that of a bloodstone – to its maker and licked his strangely dry lips.

“What-what is it?” He felt himself stammering against the immense drawn it had on him, a whisper that called to his fëa and his heart.

“It is a Palantíri,” Fëanáro said, raising the green-black globe in his hands. Wisps smoked inside it, coiled and whirled alluringly.

“What does it see?” Rúmil asked, almost fearful of the answer.

“Everything!” Fëanáro said low and passionately, closing the distance between them with that wild fire inside his eyes. “It can unravel the threads of time and show you whatever you wish for-”

“The past? Can it show the past?” Rúmil asked with a gulp, aware of the irresistible pull of his longing.

“Yes!” Fëanáro cried with an ecstatic laugh. “Past, present, future: you need only to use your strength of mind to bend it to your will.”

Rúmil shivered and felt dizzy, knees grown suddenly weak with the realization of what his old pupil had achieved. He clutched hard on the edges of the table as he felt his mind reel – but then, a firm hand caught his elbow and helped him not to sway. Nolofinwë looked at him intensely, aware of Rúmil’s thoughts – too close to the surface of his mind, perhaps – but he thanked the High Prince and straightened his back to hide the fear he felt.

“Has it been tested?”

“Yes,” Nolofinwë added. “It works.”

Rúmil glanced to Nelyafinwë, unsure of what Fëanáro’s eldest might know.

 _I told him almost everything, but not all._ Fëanáro said inside his mind. _He can leave if you want him to._

Rúmil moistened his parched lips. “No, he can stay. Whatever I see, he is old enough to understand.”

“I don’t mind if it’s too personal, Rúmil,” Nelyo said softly, with such gentleness that he closed his eyes against it. It hurt, oh how much it hurt! Rúmil shook his head minutely. His nails had started making scratches on the wooden surface, but Fëanáro didn’t say anything – he might not even be aware of the new marks on his table, so intent was he of Rúmil – and again, being the center of that scrutiny, the focus of that attention was so exhilarating, so absolutely sweltering he couldn’t say no. He wouldn’t have. Rúmil nodded, then, resolutely.

“Hold it with both hands and focus your mind on whatever you wish to see,” Fëanáro said quietly, handing him the globe – which was so much lighter than it seemed! Rúmil frowned and raised a quizzical look to his pupil. “A new alloy,” Fëanáro guessed.

Rúmil’s brows disappeared in his hairline. “Metal and stone?” His eyes searched for an explanation, but this… “But that’s impossible!” He cried despite his anxiety.

“Not anymore,” Fëanáro shrugged. “I can tell you all about it later if you wish…” and he fixed his gaze on the stone once more, like the child he had once being that waited for Rúmil to test his experiments with unabashed excitement.

Rúmil could’ve laughed, but Fëanáro was right: he wouldn’t listen to half the explanation if he didn’t look first. Rúmil was painfully aware of what using this amount of ósanwë might bring upon him. He bit his lips, unsure, unable to trust the strength of his own mind. 

“Will they know?” He asked, a fierce determination setting onto his bones. He clenched his jaws and held the stone firmly.

“It is designed to be interference-free, but…” Fëanáro said seriously and moistened his own lips, “we don’t know what might happen to you.” And he looked at Rúmil as if he suddenly remembered the implications of his own creation.

“You don’t have to look if you’re not sure,” Nolofinwë said softly in his ear.

Rúmil was silent. He could no more leave it here than he could stop loving Fëanáro. That was the impossibility he knew one day would doom him. And the stone called to him, whispered his name, and when he opened his eyes, he felt a pull so strong his eyes widened and went blank as his mind searched for the one who had been his soul-bonded mate and still had the other half of his heart.

Slowly, a person became visible in the stone, got closer: a tall dark-haired Elf, with an enormous, almost savage ivory bow at his back. He looked over his shoulder and smiled, crinkles in his gray Noldorin eyes and dimples in his cheeks – the beloved face of Nurwë. This was a memory, Rúmil knew. He was vaguely aware of the other three companions by his side, watching the stone with him, but his mind was bent on his beloved.

_Ah, my soul…_

Then, Nurwë’s beautiful face vanished, and the image changed. Rúmil felt dizzy as Power surged through him; a thrill ran down his spine, and it tingled the tip of his fingers. The image changed, blurred, sped and whirled, incapable on focusing on one single thing, but Rúmil saw a dark dungeon – for it was a cave with shackles and chains and fire – and a figure stood hunched on the floor, naked, hair cut off, and he bled profusely from so many cuts it was impossible to count. Rúmil could almost smell the blood, hear the terrible screams that ran through him like a gush of a violent wind, and he balked. 

The stone heated up, and it seemed like he held fire with bare hands, but his body went rigid, and he couldn’t move. His mind was brutally forced, and the images were wrenched from him. He wanted to scream, call Nurwë’s name because he knew, he _knew_ that poor hunched figure was Nurwë, and he was being tortured, but the Power that wrested his mind was so great Rúmil could do nothing about it.

The Power of the stone and the Power from outside fought a ravenous battle inside Rúmil’s mind, and the stone flashed with a blinding white light that made them all cover their eyes – not Rúmil, for he was still drawn inward, inside his own memories, lost in the desperation that he had found Nurwë, but he had been taken away from him again and where was he now? What had happened to him? 

Nurwë! _Nurwë_! His mind screamed and reeled and rebelled, but his will was utterly quenched. The stone fell from his hands, and it burned, rolled down the floor, and stopped at Nelyo’s feet.

“Don’t touch it!” 

Fëanáro cried from somewhere far away, and Rúmil felt when his body hit the hard ground where he had also fallen; he felt himself being gently maneuvered into something soft – mattress and pillows and silk sheets that were cool on his overheated skin – his mind still trapped inside itself, jerked violently away from the torture and maiming of Nurwë and he would never know – never know – if Nurwë lived or died.

A sob escaped his lips, and he clutched the tunic above his heart. A physical pain shot through him like a spear, and his mind blanked; Rúmil saw no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haruni (Q): grandmother.
> 
> Also, I'm a needy writer and I love receiving feedback from you! Let me know what you thought :D


	35. Fight fire with fire

Fëanáro watched with wide, astonished eyes as the images from the Seeing-Stone were projected into his own mind – something he definitely hadn’t predicted could happen. His mind reeled with the questions it inevitably brought: how could he see what Rúmil saw? If it was not Rúmil’s doing – and with every passing second Fëanáro was sure it wasn’t – then __ why? He had joked before that the Stone was “interference-free,” but this was no joke at all. Somehow, someone had slipped past through the defenses of the Stone and was inside Rúmil’s mind.

_Fëanáro!_ He heard Nolofinwë cry as the images of a grimy, tortured elf chained on a dungeon flashed before his eyes, and then, a massive wave of heat spread from the Stone and hit them with full force, followed by a white-blinding flash. They all staggered, and Fëanáro saw both Nolofinwë and Maitimo cover their faces with their arms.

Rúmil rolled his eyes and dropped the Stone from his limp hands, and Fëanáro barely had the time to fend Maitimo off the Stone before they saw Rúmil lying on the ground, inert and pale as a marble statue, eyes blank rolled into their sockets. Fëanáro shared a panicked look with Nolofinwë, and they both carried Rúmil to his own bed.

“What was that?” Maitimo whispered, face white with shock, and Fëanáro realized he had not been the only one to have seen the images in his mind.

He went to his firstborn and embraced him hard, forcing his tall son’s head into his shoulder. Maitimo shivered slightly and flung trembling arms around his waist. 

“Hush, it’s gone now. You’re safe,” he whispered into copper hair. _This will never touch you, my love. I will give my life to ensure it will never touch you_.

When he looked back at Nolofinwë, his brother had put a damp cloth on Rúmil’s forehead. Though his face showed nothing, stern and controlled, a mere shadow of a frown between his brows, Fëanáro could feel his panicked worry from the end of their bond, but he dare not immerse on it, not now. Fëanáro envied him a little but was thankful for his steadiness; Maitimo needed it more than he did.

“He is as cold as clay,” Nolofinwë murmured.

“Should I call for a healer?” Maitimo asked.

Nolofinwë flicked his eyes to him, and they softened. “No, it’s better if we keep whatever happened in here between the four of us.”

“Your uncle is right,” Fëanáro sat on the bed beside Rúmil’s still figure. “But we could use some mirúvorë.”

Maitimo didn’t have to be told twice. He almost ran from the workshop, a vestige of hysteria, and Fëanáro thought it was for the best – he didn’t want his son to know just how bad the whole thing really was. Once Maitimo was gone, Nolofinwë’s shoulders sagged a little, and he let his mask slip.

“What the hell are we going to do? We can’t leave him like this!”

“No,” Fëanáro muttered and chewed his lower lip. He carefully lifted Rúmil’s eyelids and saw that his eyes were glassy, lifeless, his skin clammy, and so very white. “For now, let us just wait.”

And they did. Minutes blended into hours, and still, they had no response from Rúmil. He had no improvement nor worsening, but Fëanáro started to feel restless. Maitimo came and went from his workshop, asking for news from time to time. The first day, they let Rúmil rest.

“Atar? Amil is asking if you shall dine with us,” Maitimo spoke with his head peeking in from the door.

“Yes,” he sighed. “But we can’t leave him here, unassisted. Nolvo, you go.”

“And you?”

“I will watch over him,” Fëanáro shrugged. “It’s not the first time I go without eating a meal with my family,” he gave Nolofinwë a rueful smile, and his brother curled his lips.

“Fine. I will inform Nerdanel of Rúmil’s accident on the forges,” Nolofinwë stood up from the old master’s bedside and went around to the other side, where he sat. “Don’t do anything stupid or rash without me.” 

Fëanáro huffed, and Nolofinwë squeezed his shoulder, the link through their bond screaming for more contact, more reassurance... Fëanáro wanted to sink his nose in Nolofinwë’s familiar scent, which was all the comfort he needed. 

On the third day, Fëanáro paced the chambers up and down, biting his nails and watching Rúmil with the corner of his eyes, imagining movement where there was stillness, seeing shadows that weren’t there. Nolofinwë had had the midday meal with his family first, and when he returned, Fëanáro ignored the plate of grilled vegetables, meat, and fresh bread he brought with him.

“I have to bring him back,” he took the cup of wine from his brother’s hand and took a long swig.

Nolofinwë put the plate carefully on Fëanáro’s working table, and frowned, his apple bobbed up and down. They sat at opposite sides of Rúmil’s sickbed like they had done the past days. 

“How?” 

“I will have to create a mental link with him. What will happen when I do…” he didn’t finish, for not even he wanted to think of the consequences of such a thing.

“What?” Nolofinwë barked. “Are you mad? What if the thing we saw backfire into yourmind instead?” _What am I to do then?_

Fëanáro looked back at where the Seeing-Stone lay, its green-black depths swirling like smoke as if nothing had happened. He stared at it intently, feeling the last reminiscent pulses of Power fading into nothingness. “It won’t,” Fëanáro answered with conviction. “Whatever it was that forced Rúmil’s mind back is gone.”

“Brother, please-”

“There is no other way,” he cut in. “If I won’t bring him back, who will? You?”

“You don’t think I could?” Nolofinwë raised an indignant eyebrow, every inch as proud as their father.

“That is beyond the point!”

“And what makes you think I will let _you_ do this?” Nolofinwë growled, eyes glistening with a dangerous warning.

“Let me?” Fëanáro hissed in turn, equally dangerous. “You forget your place, little brother.”

Nolofinwë’s nostrils flared, and Fëanáro realized how close they were to begin an argument neither of them wanted. He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. “Forgive me, melmënya,” he whispered.

”Fëanáro... how can I watch you put yourself at risk after everything that’s happened?”

Fëanáro crossed the room to his side and knelt in front of him. “It’s a risk for us both,” he said softly, brushing his finger’s on Nolofinwë’s knee, “but it is as great a risk as what we have done with the Stone. And for Rúmil, I am willing to take it,” he added, looking at the still, deathly face of his old master, his friend, and set his jaws in resolve.

When his eyes returned to Nolofinwë, Fëanáro saw a deep frown marking his striking features, and his teeth gritted so tightly they might’ve cracked.

“Stop it,” he put his hands on Nolofinwë’s hip, shaking him slightly. “Rúmil is like family to me, Nolvo. I love him like he was my father – and in many aspects, he has been better than our own.”

Nolofinwë’s eyes widened. “Don’t be ungrateful, brother! You have always been the favored one,” he said with a low voice – not jealous, not even begrudged. Reverent, perhaps, and Fëanáro felt his chest tighten. There was nothing he could answer to that. 

Nolofinwë looked back at Rúmil, face crumpled with concern. “Alright. But don’t you even think you are going to do this all by yourself!”

Fëanáro stood up and kissed his brow tenderly before returning to the other side of the bed. He glanced over Rúmil’s still body to Nolofinwë, and his brother nodded once. He took a deep breath, then, and place a hand on the lambengolmor’s cold temple.

His mind widened, reached, and wandered...

...He was lost in a shrivel of black and white mist that was at once thick and suffocating, light and refreshing – one trying to smother, the other trying to give him strength. Fëanáro stood in an empty space and felt the black and white gushes of wind on his cheeks, lifting his hair. He didn’t know how any of it was possible, but his body felt as solid as if he walked under the light of the Trees.

The mists kept swirling all around, ceaselessly, and Fëanáro had to ignore them. He needed to find Rúmil, so he started walking. And walk he did, for he knew not how long. Hours, it seemed. The emptiness around him didn’t recede, and it felt like he walked in circles – or that he had never left the place where he began. He sighed in frustration. Maybe the will of his mind was not enough. Maybe he needed more…

“Rúmil? Where are you?” He said aloud as if they were but in the same room.

As soon as he said those words, though, they came out muffed. The fog that was swirling came to a screeching halt and coiled around him like it had suddenly realized he was there, and it entered through his nose, pressing on his lungs. It tasted like metal upon his tongue, and he staggered, gasping for air, and fell to one knee. 

“You shouldn’t be here. You _couldn’t_ be here,” the fog whispered, a mellow, beautiful voice, and it pressed further inside his skull like it wanted to split him open from the inside. Fëanáro screamed and clutched his head between his hands.

“Get out! Get out!” He cried uselessly, and the pain increased. 

When he felt he would be sick with it, he thought about the last time his mind was thus abused, how Nolofinwë’s mind had been open to abuse – and his heart flared with fury and love. From far away, like something reaching him from the distant stars, he felt another fire join with his – and he knew it to be Nolofinwë’s.

 _Brother… lover… my soul…_

Fëanáro inhaled deeply and mustered all the Power he could, his body tight with it like he would burst into flames.

“I said… get OUT!”

White fire exploded from his body. He felt it burning in his veins; his arms glowed like a torch lit with starlight, and his vision was scorched clean with it, illuminating that empty space with such a force like it had never before. 

Fëanáro groaned, pushing his white flames against the mists, and they mingled and distorted in frenzied terror like they were shrieking. They fought, tried to push it back into Fëanáro’s body – but no. He was stronger. With a last burst from his chest, it all went blindingly white, and then, it was gone. The mists, the pain, and the glow. He was left alone in that emptiness – until he realized he was not alone anymore.

There was a figure lying peacefully on the ground. 

Rúmil.

As he approached, he realized the old master laid on the same bed, but Nolofinwë wasn’t there. Fëanáro could feel him regardless, the power of his fire flooding his mind with warmth, anchoring him to the reality of the outside. The bed stood adrift in an empty vastness like it rested on the clouds, in a room with now walls.

Fëanáro sat in the bed and took Rúmil’s hand in his. It was deadly cold.

“Rúmil,” he called softly. “Wake up.”

***

Rúmil’s eyes fluttered open. He didn’t recognize where he was, but he recognized the face of the one who stared in relief at him.

“You have called me,” he whispered.

“I have,” Fëanáro answered with a smile. “You are safe now.”

Rúmil licked his dry lips and smiled weakly. Fëanáro’s brilliant fire had burned the darkness away, and Rúmil felt lighthearted in a way he had scarcely remembered to be possible. His eyes shifted to Nolofinwë, who looked kindly upon him.

“I have felt you too, my prince.”

Nolofinwë smiled, then, exquisite like the flame that had burned inside of him.

“Don’t speak. Here, have this,” Nolofinwë helped him sit up and held a cup to his lips. 

Miruvórë: fresh and cool like the soft breeze that rushes among the canopies. Rúmil sipped, then coughed, felt liquid spill on his chin and chest. Fëanáro shifted to press a kerchief on his face.

“Please,” he croaked a little, pushing Fëanáro’s hand away as heat burned up his neck and cheeks. “You don’t have to tend me like a babe.” Fëanáro gave him the cloth, then, palpable relief seeping through his pores. Rúmil wiped his face with quivering hands and looked around, now more aware of his surroundings. “Where am I?”

“At the room on the backside of my workshop,” Fëanáro answered, and when Rúmil tried to throw him his most vicious glare, his old pupil huffed ruefully. 

“How long have I been…?”

The two princes exchanged a brief look filled with unspoken words.

“A week.”

“A _week_?” His voice pitched high with astonishment. “Fëanáro, I have to go back!” He threw the blankets away and meant to get up, but his head pounded heavily, and his heart raced in his chest. Your father, he had expected me, I need to go…” 

He wavered on his feet and strong hands caught on his elbow.

“You need to stay in bed,” Fëanáro said gently and pushed him back on the pillows.

Rúmil sighed but didn’t object. There was nothing he could do. Fëanáro wouldn’t let him take a piss on his own if he showed the least sign of weakness. 

“Father came to see you,” Nolofinwë told him.

“That bad, uh?” He asked lightly, but Nolofinwë threw him a most reproachful look like he was a youngling caught stealing chickens from the neighbor.

“He was also worried for you and ensured that here you would lack nothing.”

Rúmil stared at Fëanáro with wide eyes. “He has seen me here. In this bed.”

“He has, and it means nothing to him,” Fëanáro spoke calmly. “He knows my marriage is not what it used to be.”

“I hope you haven’t been foolish enough to have spent all this time by my sickbed,” he tried to scowl.

“Every day and every hour,” it was Nolofinwë who spoke, his eyes shining with fondness.

“We were worried about you.”

“What did Nerdanel say to this much unwelcome guest?” He grimaced.

“Nothing at all, Rúmil.” It was Nelyafinwë who spoke, and Rúmil didn’t know when Fëanáro’s eldest had entered the room. He sat at the end of the bed and smiled. “The injury you had working beside atar at the forge was not visible, but it made you very ill,“ Nelyo looked at him pointedly. “She worried also.”

Rúmil gave that true scion of the House of Finwë a small smile, feeling sorry that he should be the perpetrator and the witness of Nelyo’s parents’ failed marriage.

“What about you?” He turned to Fëanáro.

“There is a couch in the adjacent chamber,” his old pupil pointed with his chin to the door.

Rúmil opened his mouth to speak but closed it with a click. He glanced briefly at Nolofinwë, but the High Prince looked as much unconcerned as his brother, and Rúmil closed his eyes in annoyance. Nelyafinwë said nothing of that display – perhaps he knew better than to speak against his father and uncle. _Honestly, these two_! As if he could read his mind – and perhaps he did – Fëanáro chuckled.

“Fëanáro…,” he said carefully, “what happened?”

He held the piercing gaze of the gray-diamond eyes that could bring the Valar to their knees, but still, Fëanáro didn’t answer. He frowned a little and seemed troubled.

“Tell me, what happened?” He shifted uncomfortably, trying to sit upright.

“It’s alright, Rúmil.” Fëanáro placed a scorching-hot hand on his shoulder and forced him back. “You are still weak. Rest now.”

As if taken by the same incantation that had brought him back to consciousnesses, Rúmil closed his eyes. _We will talk later_ , Fëanáro’s voice was saying from afar. He felt suddenly exhausted and dozed off.

***

Once Rúmil was asleep, Fëanáro thought about that same burning question he and Nolofinwë had turned in their heads over and over again in the past week. Fëanáro knew Rúmil hadn’t asked about the Stone. It was free of interference, and of that, Fëanáro was absolutely sure. No, the fact that Rúmil didn’t know what had happened inside his own mind was what worried him.

Fëanáro had thought best to make his friend sleep. He didn’t know how exactly he was able to do it, but he had used his Power to block Irmo’s dreams – forgetfulness, for now, is what Rúmil needed to fully recover.

The lambengolmor had been sleeping for some hours when Fëanáro heard Macalaurë’s voice outside the forge. He and Maitimo were discussing in hushed voices until his second-born spoke louder.

“But I need to speak to him!”

“Atar’s busy, I’ve told you. Better to wait for him to come out.”

“How long? He’s been there a week, Nelyo! I know uncle Nolofinwë is there with him, and amil won’t tell me what happened, either! It’s my Coming of Age in three-days time, and atar has barely exchanged a word with me!”

Fëanáro exhaled guiltily. He had put much aside these past days, and his sons grew tired of asking. Nolofinwë sat on his desk at the adjoining chamber; he had spent the last hours writing missives, but now he lifted his head looked attentively at him.

“Go, melmënya. He needs you,” he said with a low, gentle voice.

Fëanáro approached his desk and ran a hand through his liquid hair, enjoying its weight and texture. 

“Rúmil shouldn’t wake up any time soon, but in case he does…”

“Shall I force his mind and extract the secret of how he was the first male to have bedded you, brother?” Nolofinwë smirked, and Fëanáro couldn’t help but laugh. “Go, and stop worrying.”

He kissed the crown of Nolofinwë’s hair, but his brother tilted his head up, and their lips met, slow and passionate – but secretive and silent as it had been of late. Fëanáro felt Nolofinwë’s hands on his arms and shoulder, wanting to bring their bodies closer.

“Hm, Fëanáro,” his brother whispered on his lips, knowing perfectly well that they couldn’t linger on those pleasures, however much they wanted, “you should go before one of the b-”

Fëanáro bit and darted his tongue on Nolofinwë’s lower lip, tearing a soft moan from him. “You will drive me insane with that mouth of yours,” it was Fëanáro’s turn to smirk at his brother’s lust-blown pupils.

“Go! Now!” Nolofinwë chuckled and gently pushed his arms away.

Fëanáro bit his own lips, feeling the pleasant stirring of his body, and walked backwards to the door, eyes fixed on Nolofinwë. “I will deal with you when I get back.”

“Let us hope Rúmil will still be asleep,” Nolofinwë didn’t break eye contact and smiled seductively. “We will have to be very silent.”

“Oh, I will make you wish I had gagged you.” 

Fëanáro took one step forward again, but Nolofinwë put a hand up and laughed. “Go, you reckless thing! Your son is awaiting you.”

At that very moment, they heard the knob on his workshop’s door being gently handled.

“Atar?” Macalaurë asked quietly.

“Come in, Káno,” Fëanáro answered, holding Nolofinwë’s smoldering gaze inside his own. 

He turned, then, and his eyes fell on his second-born; Macalaurë stood at the threshold looking a bit sheepish in sparkling new dressings, red velvet threaded with silver, and the star of his House embroidered with diamonds at the front.

“My oh my, Káno!” He laughed breathlessly. “Look at you!”

“What do you think? Is it good?” Macalaurë asked, looking down at himself and smoothing his hands over the soft fabric.

“Why, yes! You look every bit as a Prince of the House of Finwë,” he grinned. “My beautiful boy!” He took two strides and brought Macalaurë’s head to his shoulders in an embrace so tight it knocked the air out of his lungs. Fëanáro smiled, for Macalaurë was already as tall as he.

“Not a boy any longer,” he heard Macalaurë’s smile on his neck. 

“No,” he took Macalaurë’s face in both his hands. “But you will always be my little boys,” he pecked his son’s nose and took a step back, hands on his shoulders, and ran an appreciative glance on the clothing. “Your mother really did a fine job with this.”

“Actually…” Macalaurë blushed a little, and his lips tugged up.

Fëanáro raised both brows until they disappeared on his hairline. “You did it by yourself? Nolofinwë?”

“Yes?” Came his brother’s reply from the inside.

“Atar, no!” Macalaurë whispered urgently and grasped his arm. Fëanáro stared at his second-born a little bemused. “It’s supposed to be a surprise! You know, for everyone else.”

“Ah!” He nodded. “It’s nothing,” he cried above his shoulder.

“To answer your question, no, I didn’t do this without help,” Macalaurë smirked. “But I did sew most of it using the threads and stitches you taught me.”

“They were your grandmother’s,” Fëanáro said with a sad smile, fingers brushing the delicate pattern. “She would’ve been proud of you, Káno.”

Macalaurë grinned the most beautiful smile in all of Arda, and Fëanáro touched his dimples. Macalaurë’s eyes shifted to a spot above his shoulder, and Fëanáro knew they were drawn to the door that stood ajar, and inside the chamber where Rúmil laid.

“How is he?” Macalaurë asked, silver-gray eyes like mercury filled with curiosity, more than concern.

“He will recover. It was more the shock than the injury that put him in this state.”

Macalaurë merely nodded, but his eyes were fixed on the slit of a figure that could be seen from the opening: silver hair over one shoulder, but little else. Then, Macalaurë started and frowned.

“Atar… should his hand be doing that?”

Fëanáro snapped his head at the door, and, indeed, they could see Rúmil’s entire arm shaking violently like it had a life of its own.

“Go find Rusco. We need more mirúvorë,” he said to Macalaurë and ran to the chambers. Nolofinwë was already there, one hand feeling his pulse and the other touching the twitching arm.

“He just started having spasms. Fëanáro, it looks like... he is having a nightmare?” Nolofinwë inquired, more confounded than ever, and Fëanáro could feel the surge of panic and fear that took hold of his brother’s heart.

Fëanáro lifted Rúmil’s eyelids, and his eyes were blank. “Help me sit him up.” 

They accommodated Rúmil on the pillows, but his left arm coiled and twisted like his bones had turned into water. It was only then they realized the lambengolmor’s lips were moving. Fëanáro approached his ear to Rúmil’s mouth and heard a language he had never heard before in his life. It was not Valarin, but it was rude in both a different and similar way. It burned on his ears like a curse, and Fëanáro’s breath hitched. He looked back at Nolofinwë, and both stared at each other without knowing what to do.

“What’s happening to him?” Macalaurë’s fearful voice cut through, and Fëanáro turned his head to see both his eldest sons standing with wide eyes and pale faces at the door.

“Rusco!” Nolofinwë called, urgent but calm – one would never tell he was terrified inside – and extended his hands.

Maitimo handed him the flask of mirúvorë, and Fëanáro had to hold the twitching limb with his knees so Nolofinwë wouldn’t spill it all. Still, as he was talking in his dreams, the liquid barely stayed in. Fëanáro forced Rúmil’s head back, as gently and as firmly as he could, and they managed to make Rúmil swallow a few drops.

“Rúmil, come back to us,” Fëanáro touched his forehead. “Listen to my words, look into my light. For I am Curufinwë Fëanáro, the Spirit of Fire. Come back.”

Fëanáro had no idea why those words had come to him, but he knew them to be true and right. He pushed inside Rúmil’s mind just enough to pass through his unaware consciousnesses and let a flash of his fire pulse once, twice. Then, Rúmil went slack, his shoulders relaxed. He cracked an eye open, and Fëanáro exhaled loudly through his nose, unable to hide his relief.

“Fëanáro?” Rúmil muttered. “What happened? What was that?”

He opened his mouth to speak, looked at Nolofinwë, and they both looked briefly at Maitimo and Macalaurë, who were rooted to their spots, gawping. Nolofinwë stood up in a fluid motion and put one arm over the shoulders of each nephew. 

“Come, boys,” he spoke quietly.

“But uncle-” Maitimo began to say.

“Not now, Rusco. Let him recover, then perhaps you can ask your father,” Nolofinwë gave him a tight smile.

Macalaurë was carried out still looking over his shoulder, but, at last, Nolofinwë scurried them off the workshop and bolted the door behind him. In a second, he was back into the chambers and at his place beside Rúmil.

“Fëanáro, please,” the old master propped himself up on trembling elbows and sat upright. “I need to know.”

Fëanáro could feel the crease between his brows growing. He licked his lips, suddenly feeling very tired. He blinked a few times longer than it was normal and looked at Rúmil straight in the eyes. “I… don’t know.

“What do you remember?” Nolofinwë urged him quietly. Rúmil extended a shaky hand and took the cup of mirúvorë from his hands. He took a deep gulp and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Darkness,” he said, closing his eyes as if in pain. “Darkness all around me, like nothing I’ve ever seen.” He paused, and Fëanáro was eager to know, to ask more, but he contained himself for once and let Rúmil take his time. “It was darkness like a force, but unlike nature,” Rúmil continued, face pinched in pain, “pushing onto me as if it wanted to enter… to possess my fëa. _Own_ me.”

Fëanáro felt an icy lump on the pit of his stomach, and he didn’t know if the feeling belonged to him or to his brother. They shared one knowing look and waited.

“It was powerful. Very powerful. Black as the pits of Utumno,” Rúmil finished with barely a breath, and remained silent, eyes open but staring at the ceiling, unseeing.

Utumno. A dark word for a darker place still. Fëanáro had heard of it as a rumor that ran with those who survived the Great Journey. But never had it been uttered like this... like a palpable menace. Melkor was held responsible for it – whatever it was. The Valar had never spoken about it, and Rúmil had only guesses – guesses that he had shared once with Fëanáro in his youth: that it was an underground fortress, a place of terror where demons were born.

It could never be proven, of course, but that would explain why the Valar had one of their own chained and locked down for three ages in the Halls of Mandos – or so the rumors said, and Rúmil believed them. It would also explain the vision of the tortured elf inside the Stone. 

The temperature dropped inside the chamber, and Fëanáro shivered.

“Do you think it possible?” He asked, at last, dreading the answer. “That something could have reached you here?”

Rúmil turned his head slowly like it demanded a lot of effort from him.

“I don’t know,” he said weakly and swallowed hard. “But _they_ would, perhaps. If Manwë’s brother was attempting to breach the defenses built around him, they would know…” Rúmil sounded exhausted, and Fëanáro was about to let him sleep more, but the old master caught his arm in a vise-like grip. “You need to bar my mind from it.”

Fëanáro stared at him bewildered. “Rúmil, I can’t-”

“You can!” Rúmil cried aloud and shook him. “You must. Try, at least. Please. Fëanáro…”

His eyes were wide with horror, and Fëanáro could never have imagined he would see an elf behaving thus. The Valar had guaranteed the Elves protection and distance from such suffering, yet here it was, at his very bed, witnessed by the people he loved the most. He worried on his lower lip and glanced at Nolofinwë, who looked equally concerned, but the message he got from the other end of their bond was of unending, unmeasurable love. It was as if Nolofinwë was saying he could actually do it.

“You are aware this can go awfully wrong?” Fëanáro asked at last.

“It is worth the try. Oblivion will be better than this...”

They still had no answers whatsoever, and it felt like they were as much in the dark as before. But Fëanáro must at least try to help his friend, so he nodded his agreement, and Rúmil sighed with relief, a shadow of a smile on his face.

“Thank you,” the lambengolmor let go of his arm and threw himself back on the pillows again. “I am ready,” he said, eyes hard and determined.

Fëanáro took a deep breath and regulated the wild beatings of his heart. He must do it, so he would. He was the Spirit of Fire, and he would conquer this darkness. He focused on those words and placed the tips of his fingers on Rúmil’s forehead.

He was the Spirit of Fire, and he would conquer the darkness.

Fëanáro was also very tired, but that could not come in the way now. He gathered all the strength he had – all he had left – and _burned_. He felt the tips of his fingers tingling like they belonged to someone else, and his body was enveloped in white fire, and he burned. Fëanáro descended into Rúmil’s mind like the hammer on an anvil and struck the darkness, pushing it out like black smoke and wiping it clear. As before, the darkness fought back, like it knew someone had come to drive it away. 

I am the Spirit of Fire, and I will conquer the darkness.

Fëanáro felt the energy on his body slowly draining, and someone screamed.

Another fire joined him, like molten gold and hot as lava. It was giving him strength, feeding his own power.

_Nolofinwëya… I am the Spirit of Fire, and with you, I will conquer the darkness._

Together they burned and pushed. Fëanáro had a vague conscience that the screams came from him, but the darkness was slowly subsiding, inch by inch, and he knew what he had to do. With the remaining of his strength, every bit of power he had left – and aware that Nolofinwë was there to support him – Fëanáro willed a protective wall around Rúmil’s mind, like a skim coating, a white dome that momentarily blinded him. Another scream tore from his throat, agonizingly raw and savage – Fëanáro withdrew from Rúmil’s mind with a wrench.

Even before he opened his eyes, Fëanáro felt strong arms lifting him from the bed, and he leaned on a hard chest that smelled of lavender – all the comforting scent Fëanáro needed. 

“Fëanáro?” Nolofinwë brushed the hair out of his face.

He gave his brother a thin smile and lifted a quivering hand to touch his cheek. “It’s done. Thanks to you, beloved,” he croaked hoarsely.

“That was the most absurd, brash, wondrous thing I have ever seen,” Nolofinwë scowled, but his voice held infinite tenderness, and Fëanáro felt the hammering of his brother’s frightened heart against his back. Nolofinwë tightened the embrace, and Fëanáro gladly leaned into it, letting his body be gently soothed.

They both started as Rúmil sighed and opened his eyes, and they were bright as a cloudless sky. Fëanáro disentangled from his brother’s embrace and brushed his hair back.

“How are you feeling?” Fëanáro took his friend’s hand on his, and it was sticky with sweat, but it didn’t tremble anymore.

“It’s gone!” Rúmil threw his head back and laughed, clear as the river under starlight. “You have done it!” he grinned broadly.

“Did you have doubts?” Fëanáro raised his brows in half-mockery, feeling too exhausted to actually mean it.

Rúmil chuckled, all signs of darkness gone. “Never, my prince. I knew you could do it. You both,” he grinned, eyes darting from one to the other. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

Fëanáro felt weak, but Nolofinwë’s steadfast presence flooded him with whatever strength he lacked – and it was plenty. His brother gave him what was left of the miruvórë, and Féanáro felt better at once. Still, there were some lingering aftershocks: the tips of his fingers were numb, and his head spun from the effort.

Despite all of it, Fëanáro couldn’t feel as optimistic as Rúmil, or as calm as his brother. He didn’t know if the barrier would hold. It would have to, at least from that dark, nameless threat – and he shuddered to think it could take hold of Nolofinwë or one of their sons. He looked at his brother and knew those same thoughts were crossing his mind. 

For now, however, Fëanáro had done what he could, and it would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: I have just realized that the title is actually a Metallic song - I knew it sounded familiar somehow xD


	36. Understanding, at last

The palace bustled, and even the walls seemed too small for Nolofinwë. It had not been so long since they had seen a Coming of Age, but his father was as excited for Macalaurë’s big day as if it was the first grandchild that became an adult. The comings and goings of people and goods would likely drive Nolofinwë mad before the week was over. He stretched in his chair and flexed his ink-stained fingers; he had spent most morning hours writing thank-you letters to all the king’s allies who’ve sent extra gifts – decoration items of the most varied sort, from tapestries to silverware, to tablecloths and barrels of wine.  
  
They had so many things already that Nolofinwë was glad there were people making lines to help his mother on the role of decorator: Anairë, his sisters, Laríel, the children, and even Nerdanel started dropping by to make sure the whole thing had harmony – nothing like an artist’s point of view (though Nolofinwë was certain his mother and wife had just a good eye for that as any artist).  
  
He looked outside the window of his study and realized it was near the midday meal, so he took the usual path of the last few days to the kitchens to make sure all the ingredients that arrived daily were well stored and to see that they had enough of everything – more than enough, given the enormous piles of flour sacks and bars of butter, enough to feed their household for an entire year!  
  
Nolofinwë had to suppress an irritated sigh as soon as he entered the kitchen. It seemed that his father had exaggerated a little. Half the island had been invited, although he knew most of the invitations were sent for politeness and political reasons only and would be elegantly refused. Either way, there was a colossal amount of food and drinks. His mother was also over the top with the decorations, half-annoyed that Finwë’s allies sent things that, in her words, “had nothing to do with what she had planned,” half-delighted that somethings were precisely what she needed.  
  
Nolofinwë avoided being seeing by both as much as he could. He didn’t need two overexcited parents chirping in with advice or requiring more than what they already had. If they took from Maitimo’s experience – which Nolofinwë was absolutely sure they didn’t – Macalaurë wouldn’t notice a third of it and would spend the entire party with his friends, getting as drunk as they could without making a scene in front of the whole court.  
  
“Don’t look so exasperated, dear,” Laríel’s voice came from behind him. The maid wore a dirty cook’s apron and had flour on her cheeks. “You shouldn’t worry so. Everything is going to be fine, you’ll see!”  
  
“It feels like we’re feeding a host of bears, not of Elves, with this amount of food. Tell me you don’t think the same!”  
  
Laríel snorted but said nothing. No, she knew better than to speak ill of her king’s choices. “Our lord is just so happy for the coming of age of his second-born grandson! Don’t deny it’s not a reason to celebrate!”  
  
“I’ve never said it wasn’t,” Nolofinwë raised his hands apologetically. “But it seems Father forgot he has more than just two grandsons. Surely he doesn’t want to repeat this more than extravagant banquet for every single one of his grandchildren? We would be bankrupt!”  
  
“Oh, stop that, Nolofinwë,” his mother entered the kitchen with a basket full of wildflowers, Almawen trailing after her, collecting petals that fell at her every step. “We will do the same for all of them, including your own. Stop whining and help me here, will you?”  
  
Nolofinwë chuckled. Whining! He looked at the basket and saw that his mother was weaving wreaths of different shapes and colors.  
  
“Almawen! Get me another sack of flour!” Laríel said aloud, and the girl stepped aside to help her – not without slanting her usual bow and adoring glance at Nolofinwë. He looked at her back as she went, thinking about all the things she might or not know, but his thoughts were cut in by his mother.  
  
“See these here?” She lifted a garland woven with white roses. “A gift to those who attend the party.” An intelligent move, Nolofinwë thought. A buyer of favors as a manner of thanks from the Queen herself. “You just have to weave the wire here at the stem, and it will stay still,” she did it as she explained, and Nolofinwë smiled. Or maybe it was just his fanciful mother making pretty things. “Go on, pick flowers and start weaving,” she commanded half in jest.  
  
“Wouldn’t someone else be better at this than me? Findekáno, perhaps? He is much better with manual things than I am.”  
  
“Nonsense! Macalaurë will be pleased to know his favorite uncle helped to make something pretty for his party, instead of only complaining about expenses and logistics behind your desk.”  
  
Nolofinwë opened his mouth but said nothing. First, he knew that Fëanáro might as well dislike the whole idea of gifts made by Indis, even if he had a hand on them. Then, he doubted Macalaurë would be particularly pleased with anything coming from him. They had improved their relationship since the broken ankle incident, but they were far from intimate. Favorite? That seemed far-fetched, but he didn’t gainsay his mother. She had a soft smile playing on her lips. Why spoil it?  
  
He stood beside her, their shoulders slightly brushing, and helped her weave the wreaths. He really did try being as careful as she was with the petals, but his fingers were not as deft as hers, and he stuck his fingers on the wire more times than he could count. Indis would look at him with laughter in her eyes, and he snorted at her expression. It had been many, many years since he tried anything like this, especially in his mother’s company. He left it all to Fëanáro – who better to handle any type of manufactures than his brilliant, beloved brother? (But then, he had no hopes that his incandescent brother would ever agree to work beside his mother).  
  
Nolofinwë swallowed. How could he think with ever-present longing, even lust, for his brother in a situation like this? He bit his lip and shut down the worries that sprung into his mind. Being discovered was the most pressing issue, of course, but there was also Rúmil. The loremaster had gotten better just enough to ride home on his own, and Nolofinwë knew Fëanáro kept a constant eye on him. Nothing strange had happened since that last crisis, but they couldn’t be too sure. Nolofinwë cast aside all jealousy from his heart – Rúmil didn’t need that to pile up against his many troubles.  
  
“Stop overthinking,” Indis said quietly. “Concentrate on what you are doing with your hands, and let other cares fall into the back of your mind.”  
  
Nolofinwë looked up at her in surprise, but his mother hadn’t turned her eyes away from her flowers. He frowned, worrying that she might somehow have read into his guarded mind. But she just looked quickly up and smiled, and Nolofinwë knew it to be simple, solid advice. Who was he to ignore his own mother? He snorted and smiled back.  
  
Once the last wreath was done, his fingers were sore, but his mother was happy, and he too felt contented with their work. He kissed her cheek and went down the cellar to check on the several new barrels of wine that had arrived that morn. He looked for one, specifically, and grinned when he found it. Telerin vintage, just for him and his brother. Nolofinwë would make a little surprise to Fëanáro, and they would drink this delicacy together as they had once done.  
  
After counting and inspecting everything was in order, he went to the gardens. Many servants were hanging strips of red silk, the color of Fëanáro’s house, embroidered in gold threads. His brother said he would bring special lamps with stones that emitted silver light – the same old lamps he had made long ago, only now perfected. Of course, Nolofinwë thought with a smile. Everything Fëanáro improved became perfect.  
  
“Atar,” Irissë called, coming in his direction, “I had an idea! Why don’t we make an archery contest? I bet Macalaurë will like it!”  
  
Nolofinwë raised his brows. “I’m sure Macalaurë would rather have a music contest.”  
  
“Please, atar!” She pleaded. “There will be lots of adults around, and I will have nothing to do!”  
  
“Nothing?” He raised his brows further. “You have at least seven cousins roughly your age, not counting your own two brothers, that can provide with plenty of distractions, I’m sure.”  
  
“No, they can’t!” She stomped a foot on the ground. “Findekáno will spend all night with Maitimo, Turukáno will be with Findaráto and Macalaurë, Ambaráto and Angaráto will be with Tyelkormo, and he is a bear. He will rather dare Carnistir into something stupid or be around girls all night,” she sneered.  
  
Ah. So that was it. Tyelkormo was reaching that age where girls suddenly weren’t as tedious and awful as they seemed in the first place, and given his eldest brother’s… easygoing reputation, Nolofinwë understood Irissë’s jealousy.  
  
“What of Artanis? Aren’t you two friends?”  
  
“Artanis sometimes is boring,” she pouted.  
  
“What of Curufinwë? He is your age, and you haven’t mentioned him.”  
  
“That is why I thought about the archery contest! At least the two of us could have some fun,” she widened her big, pleading blue eyes.  
  
Nolofinwë pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “Alright, I will speak to your uncle and aunt.” She yelped with excitement and came to hug him. “But only if they say yes, so don’t be too hopeful.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it, atar. I can convince uncle Fëanáro if I have to,” she said with a knowing smile and ran away before Nolofinwë could say anything.  
  
***  
  
He walked among the gathered people, gripping wrists with influential political leaders, nodding to less important ones, and smiling, always smiling – it never felt forced, though. Nolofinwë knew exactly just how much to stretch his lips, the right way that would make his face warm without tiring his muscles. A knack he had learned long ago, and that was handy when dealing with this particular crowd.

Well, not that there was anything particular to it – except that it was a most varied group of people, one that Nolofinwë didn’t see even for Nelyafinwë’s Coming of Age. At least, his efforts to bring the three clans of the Eldar closer together seemed to have worked so far. He kept on smiling, Anairë’s arm lightly over his, and she also smiled gracefully, exchanged delighted remarks with the other lords’ wives and daughters, until they had finally reached the royal dais.  
  
His father had insisted on one, although Nolofinwë thought it would take out the fun for the youths, Macalaurë no less. To sit there, with his elders, while he could be dancing and drinking with his friends... but there was no telling down the king when he got an idea on his head – and Nolofinwë couldn’t help laughing secretly at the notion that Finwë complained about this same characteristic on his strong-headed sons and daughters. As it was the Noldorin tradition, though, Macalaurë had come earlier to get dressed and changed in the palace to welcome all the guests.  
  
The young man looked giddy, smiling softly to everyone, even to those he didn’t know – Nolofinwë noted with pleasure – and his mercury eyes gleamed under the thousand silver lamps Fëanáro had made, hanging above them in a beautiful arched dome. Macalaurë wore a ceremonial robe embroidered in red and gold that had been planned to be revealed to everyone only today. Except Nolofinwë remembered his nephew wearing it that dreadful day when Rúmil woke up and was taken by nightmares. He grimaced at the thought, wondering when the Valar would begin collecting their due. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment.  
  
“Nolvo, what is it?” Anairë’s voice sounded concerned beside him. “You look ill,” she added very low so that only he could hear.  
  
“It is nothing,” he managed, passing a hand over his face and recomposing his calmness as an actor would. “It is nothing,” he repeated and smiled.  
  
If doubt or suspicion crossed Anairë’s mind, she didn’t show. His wife merely nodded and guided him up to the dais. As soon as Macalaurë’s eyes fell on him, his nephew’s countenance changed, and a thousand emotions flickered over his face. Macalaurë’s quickly glanced between Anairë and him, and Nolofinwë wondered what the cause of such distraught was.  
  
“You certainly look dashing!” Anairë said and opened her arms for a hug. Macalaurë went almost as he didn’t know what he was doing, and she kissed each of his cheeks. “Alassëa nosta, my dear. May your adulthood bring you joy and wisdom both.”  
  
“Thank you, aunt Anairë,” he smiled faintly, then turned his eyes to Nolofinwë once more. If he dreaded or hoped for an embrace, Nolofinwë couldn’t tell.  
  
“Káno,” he smiled, attempting to wipe out the anxiety off his nephew’s face. “Welcome to your adulthood,” he clapped a hand on the young man’s back, and Macalaurë swayed forward with the force of it, letting out an awkward little laugh.  
  
Nolofinwë raised his brows in a silent question as if he may, and Macalaurë stepped forward to give him a very tight, swift embrace. When he let go, the young man licked his lips and moved to sit down once more without a single glance back at him. Nolofinwë thought about saying something, but what could he say, really? I hope your adulthood brings you sense so you would stop fearing and avoiding me?  
  
He sighed, glad that Anairë had at least mentioned the wisdom part. They moved aside to sit between empty chairs. As usual, there was a hierarchical order that respected age, not necessarily familial ties, so his mother and father sat side by side, and there were two chairs destined for Fëanáro and Nerdanel. They had agreed beforehand that their wives would sit together and separate them both – it was for the better, even if they both hated the idea of being so close, yet so far away.  
  
Nolofinwë watched as his children greeted Macalaurë with laughs and secret jokes and moved on to sit down. Findekáno sat by his side, and when Turukáno meant to plop on the next chair, he hissed.  
  
“No, no, skip two! This one is for Maitimo and this one for Findaráto.”  
  
“But they’re not even here!” Turukáno complained.  
  
“Will you wait for the whole party to be here so you can start skipping places? Go on!”  
  
Turukáno scowled at his older brother but said nothing and sat with his two younger siblings. They all had argued a million times already who would sit with who, but they never reached an agreement – nor would they ever when one had that many cousins. Arafinwë and Eärwen’s arrival with their children put an end to Turukáno’s sullen mood as Findaráto sat by his side. Now they were all waiting for Fëanáro – as usual. With two little children running around and impish youngsters primping themselves, it came as a surprise to no one when Fëanáro entered the palace garden in a bit of a hurry, quietly scolding one of the twins.  
  
Oh, but how stunning he looked...! All dressed in black with red and gold details – made to match Macalaurë’s clothing, no doubt. His hair had little braids woven within a princely golden circlet that reflected Laurelin’s rays tenfold, while the rest tumbled around his shoulders in sultry waves. Nolofinwë had always thought Fëanáro looked more like a star descended among them, shining brightly than the Trees themselves – and this was just another sample of his glory. Nolofinwë’s heart stuttered in his chest with the sight, and he had to hide a smile from the wave of uncontrollable love and lust that always assailed him whenever in Fëanáro’s presence.  
  
He walked hand-in-arm with Nerdanel to the dais, where they greeted their son with tight embraces and smiles – Nolofinwë could hear Nerdanel muttering: “I can’t believe my baby has grown that much!” to Anairë when they approached their destined places. Nolofinwë and Anairë stood up to welcome them, and when Fëanáro’s eyes reached out to him, licking him up and down, Nolofinwë couldn’t help the heat that climbed up his neck and pooled down his groin. They briefly gripped each other’s wrists and sat down before Nolofinwë made a spectacle of himself – these trousers were not nearly loose enough to hide anything here!  
  
Once they were all positioned, Macalaurë started receiving gifts one by one. Nolofinwë had ordered a Telerin craftsman the confection of a marble and mithril harp, with chords made of hísilanya and engraved with Macalaurë’s name and words of Power. It had a powerful spell in its binding, and Nolofinwë had made sure that this was not something that could be easily replicated – Fëanáro had assured him that Macalaurë made his own instruments, but he had not yet fully mastered how to craft using words of Power.  
  
So he stood up, and a servant gave him the previously separated package. He felt a little nervous as he made his way to the center of the dais, where Macalaurë shone under lamp and Tree light. Would his nephew shun him once more? Would he be thankful for such a gift or sneer at Nolofinwë’s presumption that Macalaurë was not good enough to make his own things? He licked his lips and approached the youth, who watched him with glittering eyes, filled with some unnamed emotion.  
  
“Alassëa nosta, Macalaurë,” he said quietly, handing the bundle on his nephew’s hands.  
  
Macalaurë unwrapped the cloth that covered the harp and gasped. The cloth fell from his fingers dramatically as he gawked over the harp with wide eyes. He stared at it for a long time, disbelieving of what he saw – until he lifted a finger and traced the engravings slowly, caressing each curve and little detail, each word that would make his singing stronger, more beautiful, and mighty in itself. When he lifted his eyes to Nolofinwë, they were red-rimmed, and his lips trembled a little.  
  
The young man put the harp down carefully and threw his arms around Nolofinwë’s neck, pulling him into an intimate embrace, one like they had never shared before.  
  
“Thank you,” the young man said, voice muffled in his hair. “This is the most marvelous gift, and I shall cherish it with all my heart.”  
  
Nolofinwë was moved to hear such things, of course – from Macalaurë none the less! – but the reaction quite baffled him. He tightened his arms around the lithe body.  
  
“You deserve it, Káno.”  
  
When they pulled back, both visibly shaken and with tears in their eyes, Nolofinwë chuckled. He had hoped to please with his gift, but Macalaurë’s response was more than he could have ever imagined. He cupped Macalaurë’s face, and his stunned nephew closed his eyes, tears falling at their own accord. Nolofinwë moved his thumbs to wipe them out and kissed his brow tenderly.  
  
He turned and caught a strange frown in his brother’s features as Fëanáro watched the scene unfold. Nolofinwë wondered if the display of affection had been too much. Perhaps they drew too much attention? Maybe he was jealous that Macalaurë seemed to like his gift better? But that was ridiculous – Fëanáro had made him a precious necklace with the star of his house enmeshed with a harp, what could be Macalaurë’s emblem if he so wished, and that hung around his neck even now.  
  
Fëanáro’s eyes turned to him, then, and he grinned broadly. “I told you he would love it,” was all he said when Nolofinwë took his place.  
  
“That was a wonderful gift, thank you,” Nerdanel said to Anairë and to him, and Nolofinwë gave one of his artificial smiles. Thankfully, none seemed to notice his bewilderment.  
  
The party went on as food and drinks passed along without restraint. Findekáno and Maitimo discussed the new festival in honor of Oromë, where there would be games of hunt and archery, and Nolofinwë listened with a smile as they talked about places to explore and organized parties to go with them. Then, his father stood up, red-faced from the wine, and bellowed:  
  
“Macalaurë,” his potent voice resounded through the gathering. “I know you’ve prepared something!” He blinked towards Nerdanel, and that silenced the crowd, who looked expectantly at the Noldorin most talented musician. “Will you indulge your grandfather and play for us?”

Macalaurë grinned and bowed, accepting the honor – and the duty. Nolofinwë shook his head, smiling fondly at his father’s whims. It was very like him to demand something from a grandchild at his own begetting day party. But Nolofinwë couldn’t deny that to hear Macalaurë singing would be most welcome.  
  
The young man sat on a stool prepared for him right in the middle of the garden and brought his old harp with him.  
  
“Forgive me, uncle,” Macalaurë said, looking at him, “if I do not inaugurate your gift today, for the song I have prepared has been rehearsed with my old instrument, and I wouldn’t want to make a fool out of myself.”  
  
There were laughs all around – that boy could play the fresh bowels of a dead animal with a stick and still make it sound like music from the stars. Nolofinwë smiled and bowed his head in acknowledgment. Macalaurë positioned himself, and his fingers started to pluck the strings smoothly. Nolofinwë watched, entranced, as usual, as the music conjured vivid images in his head. The song soon took form to tell the story of a young boy who always felt awkward in his own skin.  
  
He’d always be trailing after his older brother – smarter, more handsome, and talented in everything – and always falling short. Until the day this boy met a shooting star, a comet that fell in front of his eyes and instantly enspelled him. First, he was terrified – he thought the star would burn his hands as it had already burned his eyes and his heart. As he grew older, however, he learned that the star wanted to befriend him, and even if he wished for nothing else, there was something that always pulled him back. The star could burn his soul, leave an imprint on his fëa, and his awkwardness told him that the star wouldn’t really be interested in him when it had other, brighter, and more beautiful stars beside it.  
  
Still, the boy’s sentiment for this particular star only grew – and he could do nothing but cultivate it from afar. He thought it was the most fascinating thing he had ever beheld, sparkling with its blue and silver fire, and its radiance and beauty were each day greater. One day, the boy saw the collision of “his” star with another, a supernova of such magnificence it had left him trembling, wishing he could unsee it and, at the same time, wanting to be a part of it, to melt and be remade so he, too, could be a star.  
  
Suddenly all the awkwardness from his younger years made sense: the boy, as he grew up to be a young man, realized he was in love with the star, and there was nothing he could do to help it; he had tried everything, from pushing it back to ignoring it, but the star always shone the brighter, its silvery fire warm and spellbinding. It was to no use: he loved it, and even if the star chose to sail other skies, forming supernovas and galaxies of its own and away from him, he would always love it.  
  
Nolofinwë smiled at the tale. It was true, then, what Fëanáro had suspected all this long while. His nephew was in love – now beyond any doubt. As he raised his eyes, Macalaurë was staring straight at him, and Nolofinwë felt pulled into another song – a song within a song. In his mind, he could still see the images conjured by the bard, but they had changed.  
  
He realized he saw himself as he was watched by young Macalaurë, and the notion shocked him to the core. The visions had changed, and Nolofinwë opened his perplexed eyes as it dawned on him that he was the star Macalaurë spoke of. His heart flew to his mouth, and a sheen of cold sweat ran from his scalp to his spine. The boy was insane! To sing about this openly, so everyone could hear…  
  
But when he glanced nervously around, he realized he was the only one paying attention to Macalaurë’s words. Fëanáro was engaged in conversation with their father, his wife and sister-in-law talked and laughed, and everyone around him seemed utterly oblivious to what was being sung. He snapped his head back to Macalaurë, whose fingers never left the strings; the tune that overlapped what Nolofinwë heard was light and cheerful, and many of the guests stood up to dance. Macalaurë had woven an enchantment, and they had all been snatched in it.  
  
Except for him. The reason why Macalaurë acted so strange, the whole reason why his nephew always avoided him...  
  
Nolofinwë swallowed a piece of coal that had lodged on his throat. This was… unlooked-for. Never in his life would he have guessed that his problem with Macalaurë had the roots in love. For _him_. Eru, he had always believed it was a lack of it that plagued their relationship! His head spun, and he became dizzy. He licked his dried lips and looked inside Macalaurë’s gaze once more.  
  
Yes… he saw it now for what it was. The molten mercury inside his eyes sparkled with love such that Nolofinwë had never seen except in his half-brother.  
  
 _Meet me in your study_ , he heard inside his mind and was shocked once more to listen to a voice that wasn’t Fëanáro’s. Yes, they needed to talk about this, and Nolofinwë, amongst the great turmoil inside his soul, was glad that his nephew had taken the initiative. He stood up, and Fëanáro immediately turned to him with a question in his gaze.  
  
“I will see if the preparations in the kitchens are going well,” he said and was glad for the steadiness in his voice. He completely shut his mind to Fëanáro, unsure of what his brother would feel or do with such news, so the probing Fëanáro gave him was answered with love and reassurance, nothing more.  
  
“Nonsense, Nolofinwë! Stop working one day of your life and enjoy a party, won’t you?” His father laughed and banged his hand on the table. Mahtan and Ingwë had moved closer to him, and they were laughing and telling stories.  
  
“Oh, you know him, father. He’s more diligent than ever for his work,” Fëanáro said with a smirk, but not without fondness.  
  
Nolofinwë allowed himself to laugh at the remark and excused himself. He felt torn. He should tell Fëanáro, but how to approach the subject? No. Better to speak with Macalaurë first, then he’ll decide what to do.  
  
***  
  
He closed the door to his study and found that Macalaurë was already there, sitting on the edge of a couch and twisting his fingers apprehensively. As soon as he entered, his nephew sprung up.  
  
“Uncle.”  
  
Nolofinwë frowned and moved forward. He went to his cabinet, took two goblets and a bottle of wine – he was undoubtedly going to need it – and poured for them both, taking a sit beside Macalaurë. They sipped in uncomfortable silence, neither wanting to be the first to speak, but Nolofinwë knew it was his turn to give his nephew some sort of response.  
  
“Káno…” he began with a small voice.  
  
“Before you say anything, I want to assure you that no one else heard that song. It was meant for you, and only you heard the truth of my words.”  
  
Nolofinwë smiled thinly. It was clear that Macalaurë was as insecure as he’d ever been in his presence. Why, then, did Nolofinwë feel like all courage had left him? “That is well,” he replied slowly, staring at his cup. What a bloody coward he was. Macalaurë had just sung his heart out, and Nolofinwë couldn’t speak looking into the boy’s eyes? He met his nephew’s expectant gaze and said, with more confidence: “It was a lovely song, and I feel honored that you chose to play it for me.”  
  
It was Macalaurë’s turn to lower his eyes. He bit his lips and turned the goblet in his hands, feeling the rim with his thumb.  
  
Nolofinwë breathed in deep. “Káno, look at me,” he slipped a gentle finger over his chin and tilted his nephew’s head upwards. “Thank you. You have laid bare your feelings so bravely... it must not have been an easy thing to do.”  
  
Macalaurë huffed laughter. “No, it wasn’t.” Silence stretched before them, but Nolofinwë waited. For the first time in their lives, they exchanged more than a few strained words – and this time with no suspicion, no anger... He would wait until Macalaurë was ready. “I had feared this day since I started this composition,” the young man continued at last, “but I also knew I had to tell you because I lov-”  
  
Nolofinwë put a finger lightly over his nephew’s lips, and his eyes softened. “What you feel is a fleeting thing,” and as Macalaurë shook his head in denial, Nolofinwë continued with infinite kindness and a sad smile. “It is, dear one. One day you will find someone worthy of your heart.”  
  
Macalaurë chuckled, and Nolofinwë raised his brows in surprise. “Today, you welcomed me to my adulthood,” he paused and looked down, searching for the right words. “I have known these feelings for a while now, and I know how to differentiate love from a passing infatuation.” Macalaurë raised his eyes back to him: “I am a person of my own mind, Nolofinwë, and what I spoke was the truth of my soul. I know it to be true, even if you doubt it.”  
  
He was startled to be called by his name and blinked quickly. When had Káno grown so much to be speaking thus, with the wisdom Anairë had recommended him with? “Don’t misunderstand me, Káno, I don’t doubt your feelings...”  
  
“But?”  
  
Nolofinwë licked his lips. “You do understand this is impossible?” His voice sounded pained against his will, but still, Macalaurë flinched. He felt flattered to be loved by such a handsome prince, one of the most sought out Noldorin bachelors, but it pained him to hurt Macalaurë. The truth for the truth, however. Nolofinwë would never give the other false hopes. “Even if I were to return your feelings, the Laws of our people condemn relationships between close kin. I am much older than you and one of your married uncles, on top of it all!”

“Half-uncle and these things seem to hardly matter in our family,” Macalaurë quipped. When Nolofinwë opened his mouth to speak, Macalaurë cut him. “But I know this is not the whole truth,” he said without smiling.

More than what he said, it was something on his tone that told Nolofinwë that his nephew _knew_. He exhaled slow and audibly. “No. No, of course, it is not,” Nolofinwë pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since when do you…?”  
  
“I have seen you together. Once – and it was by chance! I didn’t really want to... you know... spy!” he added with a shrug like it mattered not at all. Nolofinwë’s mind reeled, and there was nothing he could say to that. They had not been careful, and the thought frightened him more than he could admit to his nephew. His silence, however, gave Macalaurë strength to continue: “The tale I told was true, though. I was shocked, and terrified, and guilty… but it was when I saw you two that I knew my feelings were not misplaced – it was like my heart had finally accepted what my mind and eyes had always known,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze once more.  
  
Nolofinwë licked his dry lips and took a long gulp from the wine again. He had never thought to have this kind of conversation with any of his sons, let alone one of his nephews. He looked ahead to the floor and wondered if what he was about to say was enough to doom him forever. “So you might guess… what we mean to each other… your father and I…” and his voice broke.  
  
“I know.”  
  
 _I love him. With all my heart_. Nolofinwë wished to admit that also, but he could not. How much of a cold-hearted bastard one had to be to trample over a young man’s feelings like that? “I could, I would never entangle you in the middle of this mess,” he said instead, petting Macalaurë’s hair fondly, not knowing if the young man was aware of the full implications of that statement. Macalaurë leaned into the touch for a moment with closed eyes.  
  
“And I would never want to meddle!” His nephew took his shoulder. “I love and respect both of you and whatever it is that happened… I know my father is happier now. Then... before.” This was hard for Macalaurë also, of course, and Nolofinwë cursed himself for letting their talk be dragged into this topic. “I would never have acted on my feelings, and I will always set them aside before what you two share.”  
  
Nolofinwë stared at him in awe. His nephew had indeed grown the wiser for all of it, and he couldn’t stop marveling at Macalaurë’s words, incandescent as though they were. He knew them to be the truth; it was plain writ in his nephew’s eyes. And to imagine... he thought Macalaurë hated him! He snorted with that, and his nephew smiled too, irresistibly, and tilted his head in a question.  
  
“I thought you would despise me for driving your parents apart,” he said with a bemused tone.  
  
Macalaurë spluttered with laughter at that, a sound like a thousand chiming bells, and Nolofinwë couldn’t help a little laugh himself. “Ulmo’s soaking balls, no! I mean… I understand it’s... complicated,” he lowered his eyes and licked his lips.  
  
Nolofinwë hummed his agreement; he could feel the guilty seeping out of Macalaurë at the confession. “Thank you for trusting me with your heart,” Káno, he said quietly.  
  
“Oh, I don’t think I could’ve kept this for too long. I just… I had to tell you, I had to put these feelings out...” Macalaurës hands moved, and he spoke hotly, his mellow voice music in his ears. Then, he smiled sweetly. “Thank you also for listening. I felt guilty for a very long time, but our blood seems to run in different directions than others. Towards each other.”  
  
Nolofinwë reminded Olórin’s words about Finwë’s blood seeking one another, and he wondered if this was one of the things the Maia had meant.  
  
“Blood is blood, Káno, and our society would frown upon a relationship between two males as much as between close kin. Your father and I, we…” he pursed his lips. “We choose to ignore our own father’s laws, fully aware of the risks. It is not a light choice, believe me.”  
  
“Risks?” Macalaurë frowned with concern.  
  
Nolofinwë wanted to warn him, to tell him everything that had been going on under the laws and the eyes of the Valar… but this was not the place nor the time. He would not ruin Macalaurë’s party by landing disastrous news over his shoulder. The young man had just made a significant move… Nolofinwë wouldn’t take that gift and return it with worries Macalaurë could do nothing about.  
  
“Nolofinwë?”  
  
He blinked and turned his eyes to Macalaurë, unaware he had lost focus. “I am sorry. One day, your father will tell you everything. But this is not the moment.”  
  
“I understand,” Macalaurë lowered his eyes to the cup. “There is one more thing I would ask of you.” Nolofinwë cocked his head and waited. Macalaurë glanced up at him again and said firmly: “I want you to kiss me.”  
  
“Káno-”  
  
“I heard everything you said,” he raised a hand. “I know, and I understand, even agree. But… I want you to be the first person to kiss me. I need this to put aside my feelings for you. Only then will I be able to move on.”  
  
“Káno…”  
  
“If not, I will be forever dreaming, forever wondering what your lips taste like, knowing that once you walk out that door, I will never again be able to ask you this. I want to learn what it’s like from _you_.”  
  
Macalaurë had retaken his hand and gripped it tight. Nolofinwë looked at their joined hands and back at his nephew’s pleading face. He closed his eyes, torn in two. How in the Allfather’s name was he going to explain this to Fëanáro?  
  
“Unless, of course, you find it so repugnant that you can’t…” Macalaurë pained voice reached him.  
  
Nolofinwë raised his hand and traced the back of his fingers on Macalaurë’s cheek. “Repugnant? Don’t be ridiculous, Káno.” How could he deny him? “But you must know...”  
  
“It is what it is,” Macalaurë said for him, and he was smiling. “I know it, and I will never ask for more.”  
  
“That’s not it!” Nolofinwë frowned. “I don’t want you to suffer! Macalaurë, I don’t want to be the reason for your heartache!”  
  
Macalaurë smiled, and Nolofinwë traced the pretty dimples on his cheeks.  
  
“You have my word. I know my heart, Nolofinwë, and I know now how to deal with... whatever this is,” he laughed a little, and somehow that seemed to convince him. If there would be no harm, then he couldn’t see why not indulge the nephew who he believed had hated him - why not do the only thing that might make Macalaurë happy? How could Nolofinwë even doubt?  
  
Without warning, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Macalaurë’s. He felt the young man tense and then melt, opening his mouth for a gentle probing, their tongues gently pushing. Macalaurë tasted of wine and peaches, a sweet taste like summer. The young man flung his arms around Nolofinwë’s neck, and their chests touched as their kiss deepened.  
  
Nolofinwë ran a gentle hand on Macalaurë’s complicated braids and pulled back. Macalaurë looked dazed. His eyes were unfocused with desire, and he was panting. Nolofinwë immediately regretted his decision – if this was indeed Macalaurë’s first time, wouldn’t he hope for more than kisses?  
  
He frowned and was about to say something when Macalaurë laughed. His face was transfigured with joy, and his eyes shone so bright it was almost painful to look at them.  
  
“So this is what a good kiss feels like?” He gave a breathless little laugh again. “Nelyo is always teasing me about it, but I doubt he’s ever been kissed like this.”  
  
“Káno… are you alright?”  
  
“Better than I’ve ever been,” the young man took his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Thank you. This was truly the best gift you could have given me.”  
  
Nolofinwë smiled at the gesture and the words and touched Macalaurë’s hair again. It had been a sweet sharing, gentle as his nephew, and he knew he could never really regret making him as happy as he seemed now.  
  
“It gladdens my heart to see you thus, dear one,” and he pulled Macalaurë for an embrace that felt like a goodbye. He could only hope that this wouldn’t sour the relationship he had tried so hard to build.  
  
“I could never be otherwise with you.”  
  
The words were potent like the wine they’d drank, but when Nolofinwë pulled back, there was only unspeakable joy inside Macalaurë’s eyes, like he’d never seen, and something in his heart told him that had not been completely wrong – some of it, yes, but he was not entering that alley!  
  
“Will you tell my father?” Macalaurë asked at last.  
  
“No,” it came easy to him, and Nolofinwë knew it to be the truth. “Your father need not know if you don’t want to tell him. I am sure he would understand and would never be angry with you. Your father loves like no person in the world, Káno… his heart is as big as Arda itself.”  
  
“I know,” Macalaurë lowered his eyes. “I fear he would be jealous and angry with you.”  
  
Nolofinwë cupped his face again. “He need not be bothered with what happened between his adult second-born and me. If what you told me is true, and this is what it is-”  
  
“It is what it is, and nothing more,” Macalaurë agreed.  
  
“Then he will only know if you want him to,” he smiled, and Macalaurë blew through his nose, evidently relieved.  
  
“Come now. You should at least enjoy your own party. Maybe today you will find a young maid or lad that will love you to your heart’s content.”  
  
“A lad?” Macalaurë’s brows flew up, and he said with amusement. “I thought it was frowned upon in our society.”  
  
“And it is. But what our hearts desire is our own business, and there’s little we can do about it. If you suppress it, it will only lead you to pain. I warn you, though… if it is the case, be very careful. Be discrete, but do not ever feel guilty for following your heart.”  
  
“How could I, uncle?” Macalaurë laughed merrily. “Look where it led me! My heart is full and near to bursting, and that’s all thanks to you.”  
  
They smiled, and Nolofinwë put an arm around Macalaurë’s shoulder, guiding him back to the garden. As soon as they reappeared, there were cheers and toasts to the nephew beside him, and they separated with one last smile that spoke of their mutual understanding.  
  
When Nolofinwë walked to take his place beside Anairë again, he felt Fëanáro’s eyes on him, intent and just as heady as the scent of his skin. Nolofinwë looked up to meet his brother’s gaze unflinchingly, and they stared at one another for a moment. Fëanáro had a slight crease upon his brow, just a small hint that showed his mind was working on something that Nolofinwë could only guess.  
  
His brother’s lips tugged up, and he grinned broadly. He stretched his arm behind their wives, palm facing up. Nolofinwë took his hand, and they clasped it tightly, Fëanáro’s luminescent eyes shone, beautiful and enthralling, and Nolofinwë was probed gently through their bond. His brother’s fierce, unequaled love flooded him, and he slid his hand, allowing their fingers to entwine briefly before they parted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. It may be that I'm not satisfied with my writing lately, so this didn't quite turn out how I thought it would when I first envisioned it (many months ago) but ah, well... at least it's here. Thank you all for reading this far!


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